


Mouth of the Devil

by Inde



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Bad Decisions, Bad Jokes, Blackwatch, Commander Reyes is Tired, Enemies to Friends, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Jealousy, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Multi, Name-Calling, Nicknames, Other, Past Relationship(s), Pre-Retribution, Pre-Uprising, Requested, Self-Indulgent, Slow Build, We're not a team. We're a time bomb.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2018-10-24 02:09:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 55,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10731966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inde/pseuds/Inde
Summary: "Leave them without supervision for," the commander's eyes swiveled to the clock, "less than two minutes and they're at each other's throats. Again. Goddamn."__ __ __What's more surprising:Overwatch being the parent of a black ops divisionorthat you're expected to work for them alongside a cowboy and a cyborg ninja that refuse to get along?





	1. Chapter 1

“You better watch who you mouth off to, _Red_.”

The warning was given with all the likeness of an artillery shot fired straight into the air. _Red_ was a fitting nickname, considering above all things, the eyes of the person he was addressing.

Whatever it was that 'Red' was about to say in retaliation was contained and swallowed—but forgotten? _Hardly._

“Admittedly, most of your stunts aren’t worth a damn to me and I can generally overlook your usual juvenile crap but you’ve really outdone yourself this time. I'll even go out on a limb and say it's a new personal best... Not that I want to give you a reason to be proud of yourself.” He paused for a sniff of disdain before leaning into the steeple of his hands, elbows resting along the flat surface of the desk he had been sitting behind. _Congratulations, dickhead._  

A day earlier, Red had found himself in the same place having to answer for playing target practice with the drones. Although the damages were a nauseating cost to the organization, no one was harmed in the incident and it was able to be set aside. Today had been a different story because it involved an altercation with another agent. Red was a fair subject for scrutiny under the vastly unimpressed Commander Reyes because he had decided to start a fight purely _for the hell of it_ which would have surely ended in serious injuries to both involved parties if they had not been restrained so quickly. Being physically separated, however, did not hinder the exchange of foul language as blood speckled the growing space between them. 

The one who had received the initial punch shouted, _"you're way the hell outta line, tin-can,"_  each word fortified by a strong metallic taste as he fought against those hoping to restrain him with all the fervency of a stagecoach horse. Nearly working himself free from their grip, another body jumped in to help hold him back.

 _"Shame I didn’t knock you out..."_ Spoken coolly in response by Red himself, who thrashed all the same but had just as much luck getting loose. A cruel smirk rose up in his voice,  _“I thought I hit you hard enough to shut you up.”_

_"Oh! The tin-can speaks! Here I was all this time assumin' that thing over your face was a muzzle!"_

Having only just returned to semi-calm breathing after numerous unsuccessful attempts at flinging himself down the hallway to render his opponent speechless, Red was without the slightest of remorse in the small portion of his face not consumed by protective metal plating. If anything, he seemed to convey an irritating satisfaction about it all. The commander's lip curled in noticing just that, smugness Red had no business latching onto.

Reyes, the man doing all of the talking between the two then, loathed inheriting the expectation of tackling Red's insubordination. Apparently, Reyes had shown a natural or mysterious aptitude for dealing with troublemakers because he had handled enough agents with attitude problems but this case was proving to be different than others. Initially, the commander had tried to cut the kid some slack— revision of Red's complete file was, in a word, _appalling_ — but his sympathy had been harshly run into the ground since then and was almost entirely non-existent, an amazing thing for someone with a temperament so calm and collected that he could have passed as being extremely detached from everything.

An assumption that was grossly untrue, of course.

"What'd he do to you, anyways? Look at you funny?" The commander dared asking, positive that whatever the answer was would only be given to provoke him further. Salt in the wound, always.

But for all the clever things he could have replied with and prolonged the reprimanding, Red held his tongue. And if there were anything Commander Reyes hated more than his achingly prepubescent comebacks, it would have been withholding an apology when it was so clearly owed. One small 'I'm sorry' might have lessened the migraine, might have shown some understanding of the seriousness. But Red might as well have extended both arms and given the commander the middle finger, twice.

It killed Red to apologize. For anything.

“If this is all an act for my attention, you have it." Reyes could have sounded far more ferocious if he hadn't been so privately exasperated. "You’re under the _goddamn_ microscope now. Happy?”

Red appeared expressionless, reeling the sneer back from under his faceplate. It was clear in the very way that he stood, unburdened by the gravity of his wrongdoing, that no amount of talking would solve anything. The commander was wasting his breath on the sake of formalities, always looking over the other side of his desk to find Red standing there with different variations of the same problem. His  _this is the final straw_ tone of voice was an overplayed anthem because like it or not, Red had quickly sniffed out that while Reyes would talk a big game, he had limited range of actions available. 

And in that very same awareness, Red became dedicated in the art of testing boundaries, tapping at the regulation built around him like a haphazard game of jenga— something McCree would have strongly agreed with if he were not in the infirmary having his freshly broken nose attended to.

“You think I have you spending so much time training because you need conditioning? All this aggression but no direction for it... You’re a talented kid but you’re going to burn yourself out with this shit...” The commander’s mouth twitched, keen on wrapping up the lecture, knowing words would _probably_ always fall short; Red needed something unspoken, something that would shake him to his core and reconstruct the way he perceived the people he had wrongfully identified as his enemies and adversaries instead of his allies and teammates. "I think you know that, too."

Red swallowed the phrases, unaffected. The commander stretched his neck, chin tipping side to side and the joints cracking lightly in response, understanding the moment of transparency was no doubt wasted. Other soldiers would have broke from merely being spoken to by someone of his standing and reputation but Red was the exception— a fire that refused to die.

“You hear me?” Reyes dropped back into his chair, firmly shaking his head.

Red still managed to hold a variation of eye-contact as much as he could feel unchecked rage begin to stipple over back of his neck. Eventually, he shrugged the feeling loose with a roll of his shoulders. “The cowboy started it."

The commander’s hand, since pulled into a fist, slammed down onto the desk with a unexpected _thunk_. He knew he was irritated but only then had he surprised himself to what extent that Red had gotten under his skin. The childish excuse had indisputably become the tipping point of their whole exchange but Red stood unflinching, bored even. The sudden show of hostility meant little to him and the two had recognized it as a decisively empty gesture.

Commander Reyes kept his hand as it was and shut his eyes, focusing as much of his energy as he could into sounding neutral. Each word became sharpened and precise. “If that’s all you've got for me after everything I've said to you then I don’t want to hear it. Save it for someone who'll believe it.”

Red's stare hardened but otherwise remained as it always had and would.

The commander eventually released his still-throbbing fist, pins and needles of pain shooting out to his fingertips as the sound had suggested before flattening his palm along the surface. His tone appropriately shifted as he spoke. "I'll just say that if you were trying to make an ass out of yourself then you got exactly what you wanted. I hope it was worth the trouble you're in now because I'm sending you right back to formally apologize for it. If you can't be civil, you better at least pretend to be—”

Red scoffed immediately, folding his arms across his chest, inversely delighted. “Oh, is that right?”

The little punk loved testing authority, loved it even more than those rations of cellophane wrapped dry noodles— of which, Reyes snapped like one. “You’re _damn_ right it is,” the Commander barked, leaning forward. “I'm warning you, drop the act and learn some manners real quick, _solider_ , before I do something even Dr. Ziegler can’t fix.”

Red looked almost relieved. Almost. He had the nerve to nod his head in understanding.

Commander Reyes wondered if there was ever this much hassle at their parent organization before deciding that if anyone gave Jack this much attitude, they would be swiftly transferred  _here_ to become his problem. Like Red, for a prime example. “Get moving, then,” he growled, losing all of his previous interest.

Red gave a mock salute, holding two parallel fingers to his forehead, adding wickedly: “Yes sir, Commander sir. I’ll give the cowboy my most sincere apologies. Is there anyone else’s boots you want me to lick while I’m on the floor?”

“Red.“

“Commander?" 

“We're done here.  _Shut the fuck up_ and get out of my office, okay?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Commander Reyes watched as Red slinked out, unable to help the reoccurring feeling that he was being cheated. Perhaps it was because he had known that Red's potential was equal only to his refusal to tap into it. If any of his agents were lucky enough to siphon even a fraction of his capabilities would have become indispensable. 

McCree had been riotous too all those years ago— wild as anything, but not hopeless.

_Such a waste._

Red, with movements smooth enough to accurately suggest he had been gliding versus walking, stopped some paces ahead of where you had been standing, waiting patiently to be summoned back inside the Commander's office after accidentally leaving the door part-way open and witnessing their entire exchange. He backed up until you fell into line with him, meriting your most confused expression. It wasn't often you came face to face with a cyborg. Correction—hardly ever.

You gave him a quick once-over, noting sleek black hair pulled back from his forehead, a tight taper at his neck. Parts of metal, parts of flesh. Posture of sly power. Your expression shifted to communicate thoughts you weren't willing to vocalize.  _Jesus. It’s Robocop. What do you want?_

Red's eyes widened, in recognizable elation. You froze with disbelief, thinking that there was something _a little too familiar_ about his eyebrows. Just as your brain cells decided to hold-hands and make a connection, he continued on his way without bothering to give you a second glance. 

_No, an't be him... That's impossible._

You reentered the commander’s office finding him flopped forward into an uncharacteristic slump, cradling his head with both of his hands. "Glad to see we're really doing all that we can to give you a good first impression..."

You wanted to say otherwise but found speaking to be momentarily beyond you, still trying to convince yourself that your dead ex-boyfriend was not the irritated mess of cords and charcoal plating that just passed you in the hallway because when people died, they didn't turn up working at a black site in impossibly remote locations, they just stopped existing.

“What was I saying before... _that_?” Under the commander's elbows were the papers you had been discussing before Red was thrust into the office and you were shuffled out. "Right right, the nondisclosure agreements." He collected the documents splayed about his desk, tapping them together to form a neat stack. “Not the most exciting reading material I can offer but necessary. Signing is a demonstration of your understanding... which, I'm sure isn't an issue."

That was your cue to speak and momentarily set aside the replaying mental imagine, certain to haunt you later.

"Not at all, sir. It’s due diligence, I can respect that."

"Exactly."

The commander appeared to be impressed with your response; of course, this may have had something to do with the established history Overwatch had of sending him their most incompetent and difficult. You weren't either, he quickly decided, not without a lingering suspicion that it might come back to bite him later. As with most things, time would tell.

The phone, an unsurprisingly low-tech device that sat in the upper corner of his desk, rang then and became the second official interruption to halt your meeting. He excused himself and answered, expression immediately twisting as he listened to the voice on the other end. “ _Ay,_ _for crying out loud_. Leave them without supervision for," his eyes swiveled to the clock, "less than two minutes and they're at each other's throats. Again. God _damn_."

He hung up and inhaled through his nose as his chest visibly expanded, then exhaled at length. You cautiously resumed professional eye-contact.

"I'm sending you to deal with them,” he said. 

_God. What?_

“I’m about ready to kill them with my bare hands, so, you'll need to go in place of me." Despite what his tone had suggested, he was exhausted, allowing the sentiment to roll off his tongue without much thought. Only after it registered did he shake his head in superficial amusement. “Consider this your first official duty here. Don't worry, the papers will still be here when you get back.”

"Sir—"

You started to speak only to have hesitation snap your sentence short, not without the feeling that whatever was happening in the infirmary might have been outside your scope of abilities. You were also not without the feeling that if _Red_ had truly been the person you assumed he was, that you would be in charge of damage control for a whole new situation. 

But the look from across the desk over Commander Reyes was one of non-negotiation. You absolutely could not back out of it and hold in all the reluctance that had tried to seep out

"—I'll see to it right away."

"One last thing before you go, let's make it offical..." He rose from his seat, one corner of his mouth lifted higher than the other, becoming framed by the organization's flag hanging proudly on the wall behind him. The occult blade through the ram skull, in black and white and red. "Welcome to Blackwatch."


	2. Chapter 2

“You wanna dance, _Fluffy_?”

You could identify a new voice as you stood before the imposing infirmary door, waiting for your cue to enter like opening night for some absurd theatrical production. A moment shy of the voice came the sound of a metallic tray being thrown, recognized by a hollow aluminum spring and scrape over the tile floor, shadowed immediately by the sound of glass breaking. You sharply took in a breath, eyes widening in appreciation that you had not yet dared to step in, and doing all that you could to not wheel around in premature defeat. The behavior of your new company seemed embarrassingly barbaric, especially since having witnessed a total of zero hostile confrontations though all your time spent at your previous post and one—pushing a second—within your first few hours of duty here. But then was not the time for regret, to reconsider a decision that had been made without your input in the first place. Blackwatch wasn’t meant to be a punishment but it had become readily clear that it hadn’t been a promotion, either. You had to hold on with reluctant faith that you were not in over your head regardless of what your gut was saying and that it was possible to mediate whatever was going on behind the painted steel before you. 

Somehow.

Eventually, throwing the doors open had proven to be anticlimactic as neither side bothered to take notice, too engulfed in their own lunacy to be aware of an additional body in the space. 'Red' was close enough to have almost been clipped with the door, sunken low in his stance and half-way bent like an animal tensed to attack. Across the floor, cotton balls and tongue depressors indiscriminately scattered from broken containers, stood a cowboy,all loose brown hair and strong, set jaw under the wide brim of his hat. His eyes remained locked, undeviating from Red even as you studied him. You could appreciate just how useless it would be to say anything from the sidelines as neither appeared as if they would back down with a well-mannered suggestion and so you waited for opportunity to present itself.

“Eye for an eye, nose for a nose,” said the cowboy, low and menacing.

"阿呆か?" Red, weaving his natural language with English, responded while deepening his stance. "I’d like to see you try.”

(Aho ka? = Are you an idiot?)

“Sounds like you just asked for it…”

With the crunch of broken glass underfoot, the cowboy launched forward suddenly but objectively sure of himself. Red rose from his stance in defiance, as if just as swiftly possessed by the moment. The cowboy’s gloved fist met Red laterally the face, direct contact with the shield that the protective plating served and the sound from the collision alone was instantaneously sobering, relieving the fog from their previous clouded judgments. Both appeared to be more uncomfortable than hurt but stubborn enough to delay the perception of pain as they staggered back and away from the other.

“Smarts, don’t it?” The cowboy leered after pulling his hand back to shelter it with his broad chest. Of course, what he had said was supposed to be directed towards the pain he had inflicted upon the cyborg but just as easily rang true enough for himself.

Red's eyes tightened as his skull quivered under his skin. He pressed his hands to either side of his face, replying as his ears had not been ringing, “その程度か?”

(Sono teido ka? = Is that all you’ve got?)

“Fluffy, you tryin’ to insult me or somethin’?”

You were relieved to the point of quiet surprise that the punch had not spiraled into another attack although you quickly recognized that the more one talked, the more the other appeared to show that the intermission would not last. It was then when you found it in you to give them a distracting slow clap, at long last cueing them in to your presence. _Bravo, guys. Well done._ With a solid tone of self-belief to address the eyes that held you in delayed recognition—reminding yourself that you had not only _seen_ worse, you had _been_ through worse. “You and you.” Pointing and directing, faked ignorance to their confused expressions. “Opposite corners, now. Please and thank you.”

“Busted,” the cowboy mumbled to himself, pulling the word out while making a sour face—still _remarkably_ following your order. Apparently it didn't matter who you were only that you were enforcing the law; that was an appeal to his good sense, something he could respect. He sauntered down the rows of empty cots dressed in blinding white sheets, cape flourishing at each step, choosing one at the end of the row and sitting down at very edge of the thin mattress. He collected his hands in the space between his legs, weakly flexing and testing his fingers for fracture before patiently clasping them and peering up at you from under the brim of his hat.

You were thankful that at least one of them had proven to not be entirely useless, unlike Red, who had not bothered to move at all. By the same token, since he hadn’t decided to do anything crazy either, you decided that as long as he stayed put you could tolerate him where he was.

But without an idea of what to say next and having them anticipate you speaking again, the room began to drown in a devastatingly awkward tension as both sets of eyes surveyed you carefully. The cowboy took his hat in his hand before attentively smoothing out the brim, eyes flicking away as he busied himself; it wasn’t crumpled in anyway but he had the right idea to withdraw himself from the uncomfortable nature of the unnatural silence that had taken hold of the three of you. You felt the weight of a furious stare press into the side of your face. Your peripherals confirmed Red’s vicious interest in you, subconscious aflame and recalling at inappropriate intervals the person you assumed he had been.

Red cocked his head, stiffly, fully bored with trying to get your attention and somehow knowing you were doing all you could to not look directly at him. “How’s _he_ doing these days?”

That successfully collected your full attention. 

“Excuse me?” The first coherent thing you could say—not that you hadn't heard him correctly as no one else making so much as a whisper—only that it was the decisively wrong thing to bring up and precisely why he had.

“You know exactly what I said,” his voice was full of an attitude he had no right holding onto, brow confirming all the tension his posture denied. “How’s your rat of a father?”

Out of all the places for Sojiro Shimada’s youngest son, long presumed dead, to show up— _here._

The coincidence felt like a set-up, an elaborate prank. A cosmic _fuck you_ courtesy of the universe. You had to wonder what kind of evil you had been in a past life to deserve seeing _him_ again. There was no sense of relief about the confirmation, just a disjointed acceptance that washed over you strong and fast. You breathed in slowly to let out a long, suffering sigh. “I _knew_ you were familiar...”

“Is he still _selling_ his loyalty to the highest bidder?” The words seethed out. "I wonder who that is, lately."

“Good to see you haven’t changed." You weren’t prepared to argue. More specifically, you weren't prepared to rehash one of the last arguments you had with him. "I hate to break it to you, but, you’re about three years too late to this conversation.”

Red—or rather, Genji—seemed to grow in height. He advanced, but not nearly enough for you to feel the impulse to become physically defensive. Anger flared in his veins, apparent he had no appreciation for what you had to say. “You’re just like _him_ , getting involved where you don’t belong…”

The cowboy, now wholly confused, paused the tender examination of his knuckles to stare down at his company as they bickered. He knew better than to say something, as much as he wanted to, and instead let his eyes run back and forth between who spoke and when, until he nearly went cross-eyed and gave up.

“You shouldn't talk about my family when yours has such a vile track record." You paused, adjusting your tone. "Do you know who they’ve supplying weapons to? Where their money is coming from, where it goes? Do you even care?”

Genji pulled back, retreating into a blanched, tense calm. He was fully aware of the loaded nature of your questions and so refused to speak; apparently your past was fair game while his was off limits. Even so, what happened previously—years ago—had left him properly disturbed.

Turning your back to Genji and his stubborn silence, the cowboy looked halfway startled as you spoke to him. “How are _you_ holding up?”

“Nothin’ a little aspirin can’t fix,” he replied, after pointing to his chest.

 _Hm._ From behind you, Genji unable to keep his little shrug of disapproval to himself. You and the cowboy collectively ignored him.

“What’s got you so worked up?”

“Ain’t nothin’ serious. Harmless, really…”

“Commander Reyes seems to be under the impression that it's a little more than that.” You shot a quick look from one to the other. “From what I’ve seen here, if my judgement means anything, I’d agree.”

“Well, Pita _would_ think that.”

“Pita?” You asked, unable to get a response before Genji chimed in.

“If Reyes has a problem, he should have settled it himself—not send you.”

“That’s _Commander_ Reyes, ya half-wit,” the cowboy snarled.

“What was that?" Genji took a step forward, closer. "Is there a problem?”

“Yeah, a big one if you don't start referrin’ to people with their proper titles ‘round here.”

Genji's red eyes glimmered, amused. “Or else what?”

“Or else I'll have to convince you with my six-shooter and she can be real persuasive.“

You foolishly considered that maybe the threat of being shot would keep Genji silent. But— you’ve been wrong before and the warning passed through him without purchase.

“Yeah? Hah, why don't we find out?”

The cowboy rose from the bed at the challenge. “Really doin’ everythin' to make me go full split, huh?”

Having been put into the situation with less than nothing at your disposal besides acting as a human barrier, you stepped between the two to preserve the necessary distance. “No one is doing anything,” you explained carefully after finding the necessary tone, the very moment hinging on it. “Genji, you're not injured and I can tell you're not about to apologize so get out of here.”

Hearing his real name in your mouth stunned him briefly; a first droplet of rain before a storm, directly striking his cheek. His eyebrows pulled together, proving interest and irritation before he muttered, “Stay out of this.”

With a well of ill-feelings to draw up on, you repeated yourself, with greater insistence: “Get out of here.”

And he actually did, but Genji leaving without much more of a fuss somehow hadn't felt like something you wanted to feel proud of. Sure you diffused the situation but the fact still remained that Red _was_ Genji and hanging around his ghost made you feel nauseous. 

It was a bit of good luck you were already in the infirmary.

You watched Genji's swinging, swaying cords until the doors closed. Being a weaponized mass of carbon plating, he now assumed the appearance of someone who would shift unnaturally as they walked but instead, he managed each step with just as much ease as you remembered he once had—a positively irritating association. You tried your hardest not to dwell on it, to delve to deeply least find yourself falling back to photographic memories of his green hair and unfair smile, the way he would tease to get a rise out of you and then kiss you calm, a fun little game he made out of your emotions...

The cowboy cleared his throat, pulling you back out of your head. The world shifted back into place.

“So you’re new here, ain’tcha?” He used a voice that was kind enough, evident that he was coming down from the adrenaline, pulling his words out with a smoky sophistication.

“Today’s my first day.”

He gave a thoughtful purse of his lips. “Oh,  _brand new_ then. Explains how I can't quite recall seein' your face before. Suppose I oughta say welcome to Blackwatch if you haven’t been spooked enough to go runnin’ off and never come back.”

You nodded, flatly, in recognition; the second welcome felt no different than the first but you appreciated the authenticity of the gesture all the same. 

He had a disarming moment of clarity as if he were suddenly able to place the lost look about you, even as you tried to neutralize it. “It ain’t always like _that_ here. Honest.” He extended a hand after removing the glove in another gesture of good faith, as if the responsibility of the altercation had fallen on his shoulders and it was his to make amends for. You accepted his handshake, almost having to reconsider if he hadn’t swapped places with a mild natured look-alike.

You introduced yourself. He repeated your name with consideration before offering his own. “Most call me McCree but you can call me Jesse. Don’t mind either.”

“Nicknames?” You asked, already considering how many had been slung around.

“Oh,” he chuckled to himself. “Not exactly. That name’s as real as they come.”

 _Jesse McCree_ was somehow fitting.

You had to ask then, the topic both feeding and allowing your curiosity. “So, why Fluffy?”

“Because as you mighta noticed,  _he ain’t_ ,” McCree volunteered. Again, ridiculous but somehow fitting. You wondered how Genji would react if you started calling him Fluffy, too. You would have asked why he had called Commander Reyes 'Pita' but you were disarmed. Jesse began to give you a strange look, coupled with a preserving silence for a solid half a minute. Only after did the corners of his mouth stretch and tumble into a grin, causing him to look down towards his lap.

“What?”

“Tryin’ to come up with one…”

“For me?”

He nodded without loosing the grin.

“What’s the verdict?”

“Dunno yet, need some time 'for I can figure it out.”

You were strangely flattered. Blackwatch would take some getting used to, so, naturally you assumed the colossal change of pace would be easier if you had someone to talk to. McCree would be an interesting person to have in your corner. 

He assured you, eyes hopeful, “I’ll think of a good one, always do. Plan on stickin’ ‘round here for a bit in the meantime?”

You had, even though it was not your choice. Not fully. The strike commander insisted and Reyes seemed to like you. “I’m don't think they’re in a hurry to reassign me any time soon.”

Jesse smiled again, differently somehow. “Good. I’m sure we’ll be seein’ more of each other then. Gotta say that it's nice to meet someone that doesn't give me the impression that they’re hungry. See, Fluffy’s eyes are red but they look at me black and I've been catchin' him glarin' far too often.”

You asked, with a tone that was just slightly bolder than what the moment called for: “And what about my eyes?” _You stared at them long enough just now anyways_ , went your internal monologue without a shred of consideration for the flush in your face. _  
_

Jesse looked flustered but tried to be a charmer. For the sake of your combined embarrassment, you decided it was well past your time to leave and report back; the paperwork wasn’t about to do itself.

“Before you leave, I gotta ask... What was all that fussin’ about before?”

“Which part?”

“What Fluffy was sayin’...”

“He says a lot of things.”

“Yeah, he talks a lot, true, but you were sayin’ about your dad?” There was a small gap between him asking and adding, feeling the hesitation culminate in the air as he spoke, “I mean, well, that is, if you don’t mind but I don't mean to get all personal on you now, we only just met.”

“Oh, _that_. Loose ends, I guess.” The mildest way to phrase the truth without distortion; Genji went and died before the he saw the end of that story and in any case it wasn’t something to burden McCree with. Not just yet.

“Used to know him?”

“Something like that. I knew _about_ him, sure.” There was reluctance to clarify the extent of the relationship, even to yourself in the privacy of your mind. “Can’t say we were ever all that close, though.”

You flared your nostrils at yet another lie.

“Huh, I see…” McCree paused before settling back on the bed and stretching his long limbs out. “Well, there’s my answer I suppose. Don’t let me get you out of the commander’s good graces on the count of my askin’ now. I suppose I’ll hang ‘round here in the meantime and get seen to by the doc.” For his nose, which had not been as tragic as a case as you had imagined.

You decided McCree was durable enough for it not to slow him down.

“How’s your hand?”

“My what?” Nearly forgotten, already. “Oh, right. Should be fine if I don’t go punchin’ things that have no business being punched in the first place.”

Staving off a laugh, you told him to take it easy. As you reached the door to leave, something in you felt compelled to give a quick wave, feeling almost juvenile the moment you had _until_ he returned your gesture with one of his own. Uncalled-for, the _nerve_ he had to appear equally as sheepish as you felt, respectfully and softly tipping the brim of his hat towards you.

“See you, _Jesse_. Stay out of trouble for me, will you?”

“I’ll give it a shot... Ain’t about to start promisin' anythin’ though.”


	3. Chapter 3

Commander Reyes was happy with your report; held first by polite disbelief but underneath that, satisfied. You outlined the situation for him and he listened with interest apparent as much as he tried to deaden his expression and look towards you without broadcasting concern. “So, Red actually complied when you told him to leave? Just like that, huh? He’ll ignore me all day long but give in to the new kid...” He had been leaning back on his desk, shaking his head stiffly, before freezing in decision as it struck him. “... Come to think of it, that’s the exact kind of irritating shit I should expect from him. Bet he already considered that it would come back to me and piss me off."

He shut his eyes then laughed, or coughed, marinating in all the irritation he was trying not to feel.

You sat in front of the commander's desk with a straight back and hands folded in your lap, trying to assume the part of a respectful member of his company despite the nature of your conversation. You couldn’t help but wonder the task was a trial, a way for him to gauge your competence and worth because surely if you couldn't handle the two _then_   _what right did you have to be there in the first place?_

“Jesse behaved?” Reyes shifted his weight about his stance, managing to sound as if he wouldn't truly be surprised either way.

“First to cooperate,” you supplied, eager to defend; no part of you wanted to jeopardize the cowboy and all the consideration he had shown you. “Now that everything has calmed down he's finally being seen to by the medic. All things considering, his nose could look worse.” _Much worse_ but admitting that out loud would have given Genji far too much credit. Recalling the cowboy's nose was not without the additional reminder of just how intently he had been staring down your face; you were still making sense of his expression—lazily blinking, unfurling a secretive grin.

The commander took a noisy exhale, snapping your attention back to the room and what would have been tension provided he let the expression surface as such. "Is that really all?"

You indicated that you thought it would be more or less obvious from your testimony. “Commander, I just _told them._ ” 

“You _told them_ ,” he repeated, implied air quotations encasing in his words. “You’re saying, you  _talked nicely_ to them and that’s all it took?”

It was the voice he was using and not the words he was saying that made you briefly concerned that you had given him the wrong answer however truthful it was. You supposed it helped that you used to _sleep with_ Genji but that had not been something appropriate to share nor was it something you wanted to be actively conscious of in the moment. Above all, it was not something you wanted to visualize, _as you had involuntarily began to_ , fighting the idea off with a painful clench of your fists until your nails dug into your palms. You considered revising all that you had just said until you noticed how the Commander’s brow had slowly lifted, indicative that you had been in contemplation for far too long.

You confirmed with an enthusiastic nod.

"Well, consider me  _interested_ to see where all of this goes..." Commander Reyes managed without troubling himself to elaborate, rolling away from his stance against the desk and returning to his overstuffed chair. His fluid movements confirmed he was unconcerned all over again—you had provided a convincing enough testimony for him to drop it. 

Once he sat, he smiled thinly towards you but with obvious warmth before pressing a pen to the desk, ensuring it was placed within your reach before gesturing that you to pick it up. All sections requiring your signature on the stack of papers had been "X"ed appropriately; it appeared he had found time to help you, just as you helped him. “These might be more trouble for you than _they_ were,” he warned before a laugh, oddly soft for his presence.

All things said and done, it was only after you signed the papers were you promised controlled information. Each signature brought you closer to the true purpose and methods of the operation you had suddenly found yourself under: Blackwatch, the enigma, employer of the charming and rogue—of the cyborg and the cowboy and the infamous Commander Gabriel Reyes.

He listened as you leafed through papers, the occasional scratch of pen, occasionally peaking an eye open to watch as you leaned in, borrowing the hard surface to scrawl your name on a marked line. The comfortable silence of the room released you from the responsibility of making small talk, something you could instantly appreciate. For as imposing as the commander's appearance suggested he was, he was remarkably easy to share a space with. Even so, the quiet ensured that your thoughts were allowed to drift and you were helpless to return to what he had said, prodding at his choice of words— _he was interested in seeing what would unfold.  
_

With the papers finally taken care of, Reyes said were to report to him the next day at 'zero eight hundred hours' which was said first with all the clout of his title that you expected, then immediately pardoned with a look as if you were sharing a joke. "Or, around then," he added with a shrug, _we run on our own time here_.

Then, with that thin smile of vague optimism, you were dismissed.

 

* * *

 

Genji made himself as scarce as you hoped he would. You had braced yourself to run into him as you made yourself familiar with the base, taking caution to loosely map the locations of important rooms should you need to find them in a hurry but he had vanished. You had, however, accidentally found McCree hanging about inside the armory as you passed by. Seeing that he was engrossed in a conversation and too far away for you to say anything without obnoxiously raising your voice, you paused to give another restrained wave of acknowledgement. In turn, you were granted a modest tip of his hat which was somehow prolonged and with a greater tilt as if he were trying to hide a growing smile.

Waking up the next morning, dressing in the standard-issue black undershirt and roomy charcoal grey hooded zip up _a la_ Blackwatch quartermaster visit the day prior, you ventured to the mess hall to collect breakfast. Nothing had the ability to make you feel more normal than a uniform and a good, hot meal. Even the weather was surprisingly cooperative too with the morning sun filling the eastern-most windows to the brim like an overfull cup of orange juice. It would still damn cold outside but the frozen ground was not yet sheathed in snow and could fake being pleasant for another day.

You had been scrolling through a tablet, reading news on various websites and checking emails, when Commander Reyes appeared. Nursing a thermos full of piping hot coffee, he appeared rested enough and spoke with a smooth voice of little concern. "So, everything to your liking?”

Reyes had already went over the explanation that they were waiting on the completion of a new facility, that you would really be in for a treat when you saw the new base. Blackwatch was currently calling the abandoned military building home but it was hardly fit to be a permanent location; everything was nice and clean enough but lacking a stamp of personalization aside from the charitably-called 'uniforms' that everyone wore a variation of.

“Well, let the record state that having my own room is luxury enough.” You said, respectfully setting your tablet to the side, acknowledging your superior.

He softened a yawn that crept up on him with the back of his hand. "You don't miss bunk beds? Real cozy." Tongue-in-cheek.

And what a terrible visual that produced, _bunk beds_. You imagined having to share one with Genji, a thought made less offensive only though the idea of sharing with someone like McCree, who was above all things, not your allegedly dead ex-boyfriend.

The commander kept conversation light, implying the serious matters could wait until he had finished his coffee. “I don't plan on talking your ear off just yet.” You assumed he had not usually opted to eat in the common area by how the other agents had stiffened in his presence, backs straight as boards. They stole glances but kept on with their own personal conversations, plainly struck with fascination. Reyes explained that while there would be a lot to get caught up on later in his office, if you would stop by the training facility before to make sure the two were playing nice that he would _appreciate it_.

You immediately returned to the sound of the glass jars breaking.

_I guess this my permanent responsibility now._

“I’m sure they’ll be on their best behavior but I don’t like guessing, I like knowing,” he reasoned between a gulp of coffee as the full force of his attention rested on you. "So, if they’ve decided to make my life harder today by acting out,it's up to you to fix it for me."

You understood then that the commander was casual and laid back until the very moment he needed something, then he was inflexible, the man you had heard so much about. You avoided peril yesterday but there was no such continued confidence about it and nodding dutifully, pretending not to be inconvenienced by clenching your teeth in a forced closed-lip smile.

It was a nice morning while it lasted.

 

* * *

 

The training facility was less occupied than the mess hall, but twice as lively. It was a windowless quarter, affectionately nicknamed the 'Pit' as you had come to find out by the laminated sign on the arena doors. The sure smell of exertion and dust had been far less tantalizing than breakfast but somehow comforting all the same in its familiarity. And like a fully stocked bar, the Pit was well equipped with all the essential equipment necessary for all elite training it hosted. A few bodies speckled the area as you crossed the floor, occupied with iron and plates or wiping sweat from their shining brows while chatting with others, canteens in hand.

You noticed immediately in your first scan about the perimeter Genji and his wide overhand grip on a bar jutting out from the brick wall. Even as he wore an identical sweater to you, he sorely stuck out with his neat interweave of cords that ran the length of his spine. His movements were annoyingly controlled as he pulled up, broad chest nearly in contact with the rusted bar before sinking down in a measured and near-automated descent. Touchingly, he had enough forethought to tie his hair back with a red elastic, keeping it off of his neck as he moved. The slight ponytail was almost charming, saying nothing for the body moving along with it, until you accurately recalled who exactly it was connected to.

Then it was worth rolling your eyes at.

 _At least he’s behaving_ , you told yourself. Even so, that was attached to the understanding that it was purely situational, attributed to his occupancy in the corner, back turned to the room that he had remained focused on himself and not invested in picking a fight with McCree— who sure enough, was there as well.

You had to squint before you could recognize him. Hat removed, shoulder length hair also scrappily tied up with the odd tendril loose, minus the cape but additionally wearing loose sweatpants and a threadbare grey shirt. He was occupying the opposite end of the facility by a rack of free weights, gripping onto a loaded barbell and carefully contracting until it fell parallel with his shoulders, taut biceps rightfully screaming for your attention— but you had apparently chose the precise wrong time to look and establishing eye-contact through the mirror shattered his focus.

_Shit._

You felt obligated to go and say hello, his face reminiscent of all the undue looks he had given you previously with the growing sly grin— not that you wouldn’t have wanted to but that the moment was forced upon you then and the option to dip out was no longer viable.

“You’re starin’,” McCree sounded smug as he spoke between small grunts and sounds of exertion, continuing his set as you came close enough to be pulled into conversation.

“Consider us even then," you were quick to remind him, responding without falling into an awkward spluttering of excuses. You dared to take another careful look at him through the mirror which he politely pretended not to notice.

“Fine, fine,” McCree grimaced through muscle failure, eventually shrugging the barbell down soundlessly to the padded floor. He straightened back up into your focus, pushing his shoulders back in a stretch and widening his chest to manage the newly settled tension. “To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you so early this mornin'?”

You explained, respectfully keeping your eyes above his neck as to not make standing before him unbearably awkward, “Commander Reyes sent me here to make sure you were behaving.”

“That right?" McCree's tone took a subtle shift in pitch, another measured smile fitting over his lips. "You know, if the commander suddenly stops gettin’ you to check up on me, I’ll have’ta start lookin’ for trouble.”

 _Yikes._ You wished he had tired to tone down the charm because it made thinking of a cohesive response needlessly difficult. Your eyes sharpened and refocused with a careful curiosity. “You’re not bothered that I’m here keeping tabs on you, _Jesse_?” But then again, where did _your_  tone come from? 

McCree smiled, totally. “Pita only has you watchin’ me because that one over there loves to pick fights me.” He pointed to Genji, who was still miraculously occupied. “So, really, if y'care to see it from my point of view, I’m helpin’ you police him...”

And as if his ears were burning, Genji hopped off the bar. He cast a half-glance over his shoulder before widening his eyes in amusement. You could recognize he must have been privately thrilled because then he had an audience and then it was suddenly worth it to start something. He began a slow saunter over, scooping up a water bottle and slinging a towel over his neck, denying whatever fatigue he should have felt by his nimble movements. There was a faint sheen of sweat over what little of his organic skin was made visible and his sweater left unzipped about level with his sternum.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” McCree mumbled, his voice full of scorn as he braced himself appropriately, shaking his head in an exaggerated disappointment.

You braced yourself too, pressing a hand to your forehead.

_Aw, fuck._

“Yo—” Genji stopped, tipping his chin up at you, face covered with a training mask to simulate high-elevation, yet again concealing the lower half of his face. He hardly appeared to be out of breath and spoke in a teasing, informal voice you hated to place any familiarity in. “まだ怒ってるの?”

(Mada okotteru no? = Still mad?)

He knew better. Knew what you kept just below the surface, knew you were still upset, but asked anyways. He wanted to see your emotions flare to the surface, even if it were just for a second. And this was as he always had been, an itch that demanded scratching.

Understanding his delicate hair-trigger, knowing that the situation would escalate sooner rather than later, you took preemptive measures and advised him to walk away. “Genji, why don’t you do us both a favor and go back to your corner.” 

McCree laughed, punctuating your request— unfortunately a little _too_ enthusiastically for Genji’s liking. He sharpened, as if the sound was a hated, overplayed song on the radio. “You think that’s funny, cowboy?”

 _Here we go_ , said a little voice in your head.

As if it had not been enough that Genji had begun to step up to McCree, the heavy arena doors creaked open and in came Commander Reyes who appeared drawn to the three of you without pause in his stride, heading over without deviation in his expression or path.

“Why don’t you go back to pretending to work out?“ Genji hissed out after a small noise like a laugh caught in his throat.

“Y’wanna say that again, _Fluffy_?”

"What’s wrong, _McWeak_? Tumbleweeds in your ears?"

"Oh,” McCree had been playing before and only then became brazenly severe, or so said the glint in his eye. “How about you _McShut_ up?"

By that time, Commander Reyes had reached the group of you, forming a misshapen square. There was no need for physical intervention so long as no one got any closer. "That's enough out of the two of you. I want you both to drop down and _McGive_ me 50 pushups— you know, as a punishment for stupidity so early in the morning. I mean, the day is young but my patience for this is short."

The two swivelled towards Reyes, eerily synchronized in their movements. "That ain't right, boss,” McCree said, as if he were speaking for the both of them. Maybe you were hallucinating but you could have sworn you saw Genji nod along in agreement.

"60," Commander Reyes countered instantly, still casual, though it was buried beneath Genji’s correction.

"You should have said _McPushups_."

"70."

McCree seemed to come across the belated realization that he was supposed to be arguing. "Hey Fluffy, best keep that mouth of yours shut."

Counting tiredly to himself, Commander Reyes continued. "80..."

"Say that again."

"90..."

"Shut your damn mouth, _tin-can!_ "

Something about the title gave Genji a feral arch to his spine. His eyebrows narrowed just as severely. "I'll break his Clint Eastwood NECK."

Reyes, the human barrier, forced himself between the two at the drop of the threat, holding his arms out to preemptively brace for a fight to break out. He spoke towards Genji, then over his shoulder at McCree, in a voice that denied any real concern. "As happy as I am to see you two getting along, I’d much rather see those 100 pushups."

The two gave each other disapproving looks from around the commander as if he were nothing more than a fence until the tension died down enough that he could step out. Commander Reyes exhaled in a long, disappointed sigh before passing the torch to you, noted through direct eye-contact. “You’ll supervise.”

Which became, unsurprisingly, another senseless competition between the two.


	4. Chapter 4

McCree had flipped from his chest to his back, edging his gaze over the dusty rafters as exhales twisted out of him in hisses and sighs. He smoothed his hands over his head, awkwardly stopping to pull the tie free as if he had forgotten about it, causing his hair to tumble and spill about his head, reframing his face. Genji, savoring the blissful burning of over-stressed muscles in his organic half, happily rolled his stiff body to his knees with his palms pressed flat to the tops of his thighs. He focused on controlling his breathing, or so said his chest, as it shuttered rhythmically from under his further-unzipped sweater.

Not that you had been staring at either of them.

You decided then and there that dealing with them was a whole lot like like training two puppies; if they were left without supervision they would bark and bite, but, under a watchful eye they would listen and heel. _Somewhat_. You had supervised their punishment with restrained enthusiasm, relishing the short-lived span of time without their usual banter. The only sounds then had been sporadic grunting and panting, well-buried underneath your slow count to 100, until McCree dared to be the first to speak again.

“Can I say somethin’?”

“That depends. You want to say something to him or me?” Your answer would vary accordingly.

Aside from the lifting of his eyebrows, Genji’s body had not flinched at all towards the mention.

An exhale rattled out of McCree’s nose. “T’you.”

“In that case, sure.” _I’m not about to punch you in the nose for it at least._

McCree became as mellow as anything once again, mouth stretching into a grin he refused to deny. “If you see the commander ‘fore I do, tell him I did 101.”

Genji generously let McCree’s comment go without so much as producing a weak exhale, strained as it was by the training mask, allowing for it to roll off his tensed shoulders. His gaze, however, was not quite so forgiving and narrowed from the shelter of the hood of his sweater towards you as you laughed. 

You allowed the two to return to their own devices along with the understanding that it was nearing _zero eight hundred hours_. Genji had not bothered to hang around, vanishing as soon as McCree had managed to engage you in a bit of small talk. Although the conversation began innocent enough, it had been quickly ruptured with ill-timed flirtatiousness that left you both flushed about the face and wearing your embarrassment plainly. McCree rushed off after, excusing himself for a well-earned shower and you took his sudden exit as your opportunity to leave as well.

You had just made your exit, the Pit's arena doors still visible in the stretch of hallway behind you, when a voice forced you to stop short and Genji’s presence choked the air.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” He had since materialized from a narrow passage branching off the main corridor you stood in, his position given away when he decided to speak. He moved with lethal silence, annoyingly deft like a cat and if he had not breathed a word first, he might have succeeded in catching you by complete surprise— had that been his intention. The soft black silicone mask was replaced with his standard metal plating, fully restoring the clarity you did not miss in his words. Worse yet, although unseen, you could hear his voice bent by a smirk. “Interesting we should find ourselves forced together once again.”

 _Interesting_ had not been your preferred vocabulary. _Tragic_ , maybe. But _forced_ you agreed with wholeheartedly.

He sighed towards your silence, song-like for all of his intentional rising and falling. “So much has happened since the last time we saw each other...”

You offered a look devoid of sympathy, refusing to respond as if he had not said anything at all, as if he had not been trying a variety of angles to coax out a reply from you. Genji probed you with complete eye-contact with his impossibly red irises that bestowed upon him an intensity much, _much_ more severe than than you had remembered he was capable of before when they were amber and gentle and flecked with gold.

“Did you miss me?” Genji taunted, releasing you from his lethal gaze with slow blinking, the asinine question finally eliciting a response from you as you broke your previous stubborn silence. It was all a little too melodramatic, even for him.

“I’m not the same person I was when we knew each other, I haven’t been them for a long time. Maybe they would have missed you, but I don't.” You shook your head towards his stare as it tightened, following up with the more obvious statement. “I see you’re not the same person either, clearly.”

His appearance was the _biomechatronic elephant_ in the room that kept going unmentioned, remarkable in itself considering how lumberous and strange it was in the first place. He was different, physically. Completely. His hair no longer held the unnatural green you associated him with, instead, an inky black and possibly the most natural feature about him. What skin you had seen that was not fortified by metal had since been mapped with painful looking scars. Beyond that, his robotic, glowing, unnatural body appeared to be more of a weapon than a person. Still, he managed to fall back onto a voice he had always used with you, one that re-tied an inconvenient knot of familiarity to all the memories you had tried and failed to forget.

His eyes widened before thinning in interest, knowing how your stare passed over him with judgment. He repeated after smothering a gentle rumble of a laugh that caught in his throat. “Yes,  _clearly_ we are very different..."

You hated his echo.

His hands moved in tandem, demonstration of his new limb’s precision, allowing the hood of his sweater to drop about his shoulders. His eyes flicked from a quick glance toward his cybernetic hand as it brushed past his cheek then back to you, hoping to catch you focusing on it—which you had been. The calculation he factored in every little move was an impressive, terrible thing that worked against you entirely. You glared at him with the most unimpressed, withering look you could manage.

“You’re into cowboys now, that’s different too.” Genji's incurable jealous streak was enduring.

“The only thing I’m interested in hearing you say is that you're  _sorry_.”

"What am I supposed to be sorry for?"

“For bringing up my father. We both know that was totally uncalled for.”

After a merciless stare, the false seconds he took as if he were entertaining doing as you said, he scoffed. “I’m not apologizing to you. Not for that.”

“Really?”

“Fine, fine...” Genji said first with a gentle air until his voice broke into a snarl, “I’m sorry he’s a _rat_.”

Luckily for you, spending three solid years stuck in meditation over one particularly unsavory break-up proved to lend you enough venom for a proper reply. “It’s funny…” You began coldly, folding your arms over your chest and speaking as the words came to you, "I spent _years_ wishing I could talk to you again to explain it all but now that I can, I don’t want to...” You could have sworn that his expression under the plates began to twist, but you carried on as if he had not been listening at all. “... Not only that but I should be glad you died before the truth came out. Knowing what you’re like, I’m sure it would have  _killed you_ to be wrong anyways.”

After the last word, you did all that you could to not have your face curve with any of the emotions that were dragging behind each thing you had said. Apparently, if there had been anything remotely capable of penetrating his thick skull, it was your voice fueled by years of lasting resentment and bitter indignation. You watched what you considered to be the slow, reluctant release of anger from his features. His eyes bore into you with devastation that produced a chill. You considered, for half a second, that maybe your comment was _a little_ too harsh. But then again, what did you expect?

Once spurred into motion, he made a point of coming just close enough to you as he passed, providing the illusion that he could have forcibly slammed his synthetic arm into your side. You braced yourself for what felt like an imminent collision but felt nothing as he slipped by, only the rush of air in his swift movement and then his absence.

Genji's sudden departure, leaving you stranded with a flood of thoughts you were unwilling to make sense of, created an offensive possibility that maybe— _and that was a big maybe_ —he wasn’t as detached as he had been pretending to be.

 

* * *

 

It hardly took any time at all before Commander Reyes summoned you in after you knocked, the door to his office opening with a weak press on the handle. You found him not behind his desk but standing off to the side by the filing cabinets that lined one of the walls, a hand cupping the back of his neck as he read and a folder clutched in the other. He hadn't looked up as you entered, although mused, in no discernible rush to part with the files that held his attention. “That was fast. Guess that means they behaved themselves.”

You grimaced. The timing felt wrong to try to deliver McCree’s joke.

"Yes, sir."

Reyes snapped the stiff manila folder shut as his features simultaneously wiped their expression along with it. He refocused, giving an authoritative clearing of his throat, “I didn’t stop by the training facility to undermine your task so you’ll have to pardon me if that’s how it all came across.”

You hadn't considered it as much but were relieved to hear him say it for whatever it was worth.

“I just don’t know Red to be anything but an _antagonistic little shit_.” His voice dwindled out into a sigh as he pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Then, there's that famous Jesse McCree attitude..."

“You okay, commander?” You asked with a voice that was unsure of its own volume, unaware if it was correct of you to notice or if he would have preferred you look the other way.

He appeared as if he was about to speak but shut his mouth after a prolonged, awkward stillness. The fine line of his lips took place of a verbal reply, coupled with a stern look in his eyes. He retreated to his desk and pressed the folder he had held down on-top of the surface. "I had an interesting chat with Commander Morrison yesterday."

That word again, pinging on your radar. _Interesting._ You felt endless opportunity in the word, inspiring one too many possibilities.

"About me?"

“I lost some of my best agents recently. I need replacements that can do what they did.” The way he leaned into the desk was hard and inflexible, searching for something as he spoke. “The commander assured me that I'd have no issues with you... not that I was assuming I would but I thought maybe you'd like to know that. Jack isn't one to dish out compliments, so, thought I'd tell you.”

“The strike commander really said that?” You didn’t need to sound falsely surprised but you did for good measure. It was in your blood to do what you did; you found intelligence work as thrilling as it was personal.

"You'll do well with us," Reyes said, "I can tell."

You swallowed embarrassment at the compliment, wondering if the commander had read anything meaningful in your expression then made a point to sound devotedly unaffected, "I'll do everything I can for Blackwatch, sir."

But the commander was ahead of you and had already swung into a tone of certain detachment as well, offering distant assurance, "I _know_ you will.”

He stood, going to the filing cabinets you had found him at before, then came back to the desk. He let two additional and impressively dense files flop to the top of the desk. You waited for his cue before reaching out towards them. 

He carried on as a tight, careful smile prefaced the shift in his voice. “Before I say anything else, let’s start with something that should be relatively simple to answer... As of right now before I start filling in all the blanks, what do you know about _us_?” Another sly pause. "If anything, that is."

Without missing a beat, you responded, “I'll be honest, sir, next to nothing. Rumors, mostly, but nothing I would put any faith in.”

The people over at your last post were dismissive towards the name alone— _if we had a covert ops division don’t you think we’d know about it by now?_

“Well, that’s my favourite answer, agent, and do you know why?” The commander's words were not inflated with pride, rather, lurid and dangerous. "We have ways of keeping people from talking. Blackwatch is... in the business of _making things happen_.” He stopped to fold his hands, giving you an explanation he had likely given variations of many times before. “Overwatch gets to be diplomatic, the friendly face of peaceful firepower; they're respectable, and we all know that respectable organizations follow the law...” He gave a dismissive wave of his hand, _et cetera._ “So what happens when things move out of their capable reach? Any guesses?"

"We handle it."

" _Hah!_  Now that's my kind of logic, agent." A pleased smile stretched over the commander's face, his voice retaining its smokiness. "We do everything they can't, by _any means necessary_... So, if you were to imagine Overwatch as a head— we’d be the neck. Supportive and vital, attached."

Reyes could have made the argument that at times he felt as if they were the _whole damn body_ too, but he left it be and the more he spoke to you, the more you realized that you had been pulled into a black hole.

“I don’t imagine the public appreciates your— sorry," an _interesting_ slip of the tongue, "Blackwatch's preferred methods?”

The commander nodded again, seemingly without noticing or bothering to correct you. “We don't see eye-to-eye. Global organizations, political parties, your neighbors on the street you grew up on... They’re not our allies, so, we do what we can not to exist to them.”

The room seemed to shrink with how he had leaned forward, his voice softening but also managing to become even more so intimidating than before. You could tell from his eyes that while he was focused on you, having to speaking about the evils he dealt with conjured their memories. It would be both an understatement and disservice to say he had seen a lot. He had seen _almost_ everything. "We follow our own rules. You're free from restrictions now but you'll learn what that means soon enough."

The commander refolded his hands, clasping them tightly together— strong hands weathered by years of warfare. He wore the immense responsibility well, as heavy as a burden it had been; there was no slump in his posture as he spoke about it. “All that said, I’m going to level with you,” he said as if he were strangely at peace in the moment, “I won’t give you some long-winded explanation and I’m not gonna sit here and twist the truth until it looks like something it isn’t either... The things we handle are never pretty. _Never._ There’s no awards for what we do, no public recognition. You’ll learn about so much ugliness that you’ll just begin to expect the worst is around every corner...”

The world had its filthy secrets, but so did you. And so did everyone. That did not change the fact that you were helpless to shift in your seat, his monologue convincing your subconscious to act in discomfort.

"... Maybe it’s overkill to know so much about state of world we live in now but I'm not interested in living in a delusion. Hell, it’s my job—no, _our job_ — to make sure the ugliness doesn’t overpower the good we’re trying to do in the end. If I have to do something that makes people squeamish but gets the job done, I do it." The commander sighed the words out as if he felt indebted to mention them. “That’s how I can _still_ go sleep at night, I'm comfortable knowing that I do what I have to.”

He gestured to the files then having been momentarily forgotten in his impassioned speech. You reached towards them.

"I guess you could say that Blackwatch likes overkill. In fact, we _need_ it. Thrive because of it. Our success hinges on collecting intel on every possible threat lurking out there, being able to access every _damn_ source of data just to maintain our operational and tactical advantage. There should be no surprise that this includes knowing everything about our own soldiers..."

You broke eye-contact to look at what you had reached for as he continued.

"... So, that in your hands: overkill," Reyes explained. It wasn't quite a mocking tone, but it was narrowly bordering one. "Everything they won't tell you,  _asking nicely considered_."

You were holding Jesse McCree and Genji Shimada's complete files.

“You can look _if you want_."


	5. Chapter 5

The first impulse was to look. All the details you could have asked for, in neat size twelve font.

You would pardon that very impulse, identifying it as a familiar, natural curiosity that had followed you since birth and inspired you to shadow the footsteps of your family. The perpetual need to have more information—to _know_ , to disregard face-value—was perfect for your line of work but nowhere near appropriate for to apply towards your personal relationships. You hadn’t earned the privilege of knowing everything about them. Not then, not yet. McCree didn’t deserve to have his life pried into and reading his file would be a devious shortcut and would rob you of feeling as if you genuinely knew him, the interest steadily growing since meeting. While Genji might have deserved an invasion of privacy, so said the tiny spiteful voice in your head, it was decisively wrong to look.

Regardless, you studied their names printed along the cardstock before switching back over to the commander who managed to wear a mask of apathy at just the right moment and lent no opinion that would affect your decision. There was no necessity to have to explain your thoughts as they came to you, you understood that the internal argument you were engrossed in had crossed your features would be telling enough; there was no real benefit to acting unaffected unless you had been on the other side of the desk as he was. Commander Reyes knew their truths, both on paper and in person.

And even in the notion of knowing it was wrong, impulse prevailed. Briefly. Your hand begin to move as if it were an automatic response, lifting the cover of the first of the two files and weeding out words without absorbing sentences. _Deadlock Rebels._ A number of times. _Military hardware, sting operation, apprehended, incarceration._ Breath shifted by the weight of the scandalized vocabulary, you hoped to lose what little you had seen in a stern shake of your head before abandoning the file.

Jesse McCree: not a cowboy but an outlaw. Possibly.

The offense you felt was blurry, undecided if the blame had settled within yourself for looking or for with him for deceiving you. But then again, he was under no obligation to spill his life story to you within the first 24 hours of meeting and if you were to be upset with anyone it should have been yourself for assuming too much too quickly. You still had your integrity. And that was important. Wasn’t it?

“I think I’ll take my chances with asking _nicely_ , sir.”

The commander dropped his expression of concentration, switching to a disarming look of sympathy; maybe he felt a similar offense towards the moment as well, trying to bait the answers that eluded him to no avail. He reclaimed McCree’s file by both literally and metaphorically taking it off the table, leaving Genji’s as it was. You were not without wondering if it was because you had only tried to look at the one, that the other was untouched in the intention that you would reach for his as well. You eyed it with caution, fingers absently tapping on the arms of the chair you sat in, in physical resistance.

It was only once the metal drawer of the filing cabinet noisily scraped open and shut, expected by its rusted frame did McCree's smoky voice startle you. Any moment sooner and you would have been caught in an awkward situation. Looking over your shoulder, he appeared clean and refreshed, a subtle glow about his skin, leaning against the door-frame with one leg crossed over the other. His hair had not yet fully dried from the shower he had taken, the ends twisted and damp but effortlessly settled about his fine cheekbones.

"You rang?"

“Jesse. Perfect timing.”

 _No shit perfect timing_ , said the little voice in your head that recognized how close you were to being caught red-handed. _  
_

The commander gestured that McCree pull up a chair as he crossed into the office. “We have some important business to discuss…”

McCree settled a chair next to yours with a respectful foot of space, still close enough for you to become aware of his subtle cologne that likened all the same comfort and familiarity of a campfire, mild as suede. You were afforded no tip of his hat but a sly and unassuming “howdy” as he sat with his cape neatly tucked under him, adjusting to lean comfortably. He was loyal to his carefree posture, always finding a way to look comfortable and untroubled. Any fatigue he had carried earlier had been washed away, warm water and privacy having eased it out of his muscles.

“And what business might that be, commander?”

“Well I would show you, but—”

McCree instinctively made a loud sigh, repeating. “ _But_.”

The commander was crisp and careful, all too much like a parent scolding their misbehaving child. “Preemptively, Jesse, know that I'm not in the mood. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yeah, crystal.” McCree pulled a leg over the other knee, balancing it easily. “Before I get scolded again, commander, what’s all the fuss about?”

Reyes paced behind his desk, facing the flag. The morning sun was still climbing to its height in the sky as pale strips of light sliced through the angled slats of the blinds, straying over the wall and turning the chipped painted brick into a soft copper. “I need everyone on their best behavior. Especially now.” To you the voice was flat and authoritative but McCree had just enough history to know there was decisively more, trained like a bloodhound to sniff it out; he leaned forward into the commander's reasoning.

“Save your lecture for Fluffly. It's him that deserves an earful.”

Reyes held a hand up; even you knew it had meant _stop talking_. McCree hushed himself in turn before pressing a distracted stare towards you. He mouthed: “What's going on?”

You sharply whispered back, more movement of your lips than any discernible sound, “I have no idea.”

“Commander Reyes?” McCree asked again, voice full and deep; the hand that had been held up dropped at the noticeable concern towards the rarity that voice to use his full formal title. “Is there somethin’ wrong?”

You were both met with a fortified silence.

“Commander?” McCree tried again with greater urgency wrapped around each word.

The commander’s wide shoulders slumped and the gesture had only secured slow resignation to what he had been silently drowning in, the reluctance to follow the exhale up with speech—there was something very wrong. McCree seemed to realize this before you, understanding as sharply and clearly as if it were written on the surrounding walls. He pulled his hat into his hands and with obvious scorn woven into his voice, bordered a demand. “Dammit, what aren’t you tellin’ us?”

The commander folded his arms and directed his stare into the ground, noted by the stoop of his head and neck. Even though Reyes had made a point of telling you how he had been able to go to sleep at night, he sounded as if he hadn’t a moment of rest in years. “We may have been... compromised.”

There was an instant instructional shift that came along with the message as if someone had gone and smashed in the window pane, leaving the room to swarm with biting, snapping arctic wind. _Compromised_ , a word like _interesting_ , was vague and full of opportunity. 

McCree rose to his feet after the phrase sank in, his cape spilling back justly around his frame in his decisively sharp movements. “I think we’re missin’ a few details... Exactly how is it that we might be compromised?” His gloved hands clenched and gripped at the air about his sides, telling of the emotions that pulled him into action. He spoke through a set jaw, teeth ground together and restricting each syllable. "How could we let this happen _again_?"

Commander Reyes had found his seat once again and only settled back in his chair at McCree’s stance, re-assuming the part of unbothered leader and not allowing himself to further succumb to the mounting tension in the room. His slouch only furthered why it was he was suitably named the head of the organization—he could shoulder it. “I'm going to pretend you didn't just say that. I'm not going to give you a second pass.”

McCree looked wounded, clipped by the firm voice that shut him down after having considered his tone well justified. “Commander, with all due respect...” It rolled out, respect or no, as he winced. “If we’re in trouble here and you think not tellin’ us all that you should is best then you’re wro—”

“Jesse!” Said again with a reflexive disciplinary tone, without even having to open an eye or make a face to match the voice. "You know the limits of my patience better than anyone.”

It pained McCree to sit back down. After, it became your turn to try so said the transparent desperation from the seat next to you.

Your voice, unsure of what to say, rose anyway. “Commander, is there anything you can tell us? Anything at all?"

Reyes clipped out, words no less firm. “What I’m _cleared to_ tell you and what I’m _going to_ tell you are two very different things. What I’m cleared to tell you is nothing at all. This goes over my head. But, what I’m going to tell you is that as of now it’s all unconfirmed. Uncomfortable, yes, but still up in the air... So, that means I can't have either of you losing your heads over this. Is that understood?”

You turned completely to face McCree's profile. He had gulped quietly and slid to the edge of his chair, something Reyes didn't even so much as flinch at. The searing, sharp voice matched what you saw in McCree's eyes. “You know far better than I do that the threats we get ain't never empty...”

Reyes growled back, “I know you don’t like it but get it through your skull, kid, we can’t do anything just yet—”

“So then we do nothin'? Absolutely nothin'? Like damn sittin’ ducks?” McCree’s hands, since firmly gripping onto the arms of the chair, had him subconsciously pulling himself forward and shrinking the space between where he sat and the solid slab of wood that separated the two of you from Commander Reyes. “And suppose we’re ambushed _again_ , huh?”

Reyes leaned forward, pressing his fingertips to the desk, challenging McCree with a curl of his lip as he interrupted. You could recognize the tender, biting sarcasm immediately. “ _Alright!_ Let me tell you what’s going to happen. First, you’re gonna get up out of that chair and march right the _hell_ out of my office. Continue on down that hall until get to the doors. Keep walking. Once you get outside, you’re gonna take a breather and you can come back when you’ve got every last bit of that attitude out of your system. If you come back here and talk like that again...”

But no threat followed, just the empty space that promised a consequence that was better left unmentioned. His instructions were no less effective because of it.

Even you felt embarrassed for the out of character shame that folded McCree’s brow. He put his hat on and tilted it forward to hide his expression before turning his body and pushing himself out of the chair in one swift movement. As he left and without another word uttered from anyone, the Commander pointed a finger in his direction as you looked to him for some hint of what to do. His eyes were polished with an exhaustion you had not noticed before.

You took it as your signal to leave as well.

 

* * *

 

McCree lit a cigar before he had even stepped outside, seemingly unable to wait until he was free from the confines of the hallway.

He pushed against the door when he reached it with the side of his body to release the mechanism, only pausing his hurried stride to hold the door open for you. You thanked him and he nodded in acknowledgement but let the door shut with so much force that it echoed violently throughout the empty yard before you. Spurs chirping, he continued roving over the asphalt, kicking up sand and debris while seemingly bent on his own stubborn path yet.

The first few puffs McCree took of his cigar were not savored but obscene in their desperation. It was only when he stopped, pressing his back up against the time-worn brick, did he find anything enjoyable in the vice. It moved from an automatic action to a divine ritual, the smoke assuring him that he would be okay. His careful, practiced etiquette hinted at how many cigars had come before, proof that they had not been reserved for special occasions as you had previously believed them to be. You allowed him his needed silence, met by grey wisps of smoke as heavy as the look on his face.

It was the wrong time to start considering how attractive he was but the thought, like impulse, had its own agenda and was left unrestricted by logic.

His cape flicked up over your side in the wind, soundlessly assuring of his proximity and how he had been astonishingly vigilant to not allow the slightest of smoke in your face. You pulled the zip and hood of your sweater up, the false promise of the sunny weather giving little warmth. It was damn cold.

A shudder broke through him, ambiguously brought on by either the chill or his own irritation, causing him to exhale too quickly. When he spoke, his voice was ragged, “I wish he listened more t’me. I happen to know what I’m talkin’ about.”

You nodded slowly, trying to better understand the feelings he was releasing, like the smoke, burning away his irritation until the situation felt manageable once again.

“Ever respect someone so much that y’stay quiet even when y’know they’re wrong?” A flicker of _something_ passed over his face.

“Sure,” you spoke slowly; it was a common incidence when you belonged to anything that fell back on a hierarchy, be it a crime family or a military operation. It so happened that both were familiar enough.

“Guess that’s what’s expected, huh?” He sucked in, tight and painful, holding it. The taste diffused the tone in his voice, smoke leaking out of his mouth at each new word, “I can usually keep t’myself but he’s wrong this time.” Another puff, another moment of contemplation. “Dead wrong.”

The little voice in your head echoed, uselessly, _this time?_

His conviction had you stall for words but there was consideration towards your silence, as if he knew he had unloaded more than what was fair for you to answer and so changed the subject to something more manageable.

“You gonna tell Pita about this?” Not the conversation, the cigar. As if that had suddenly cropped up as the more pressing matter of the two. He gestured to it with, ill-behaved as ever as his lips pulled into a closed mouth smirk around it.

“Am I going to tell Pita about what, _Jesse_?” You really needed to stop with the way you had taken to saying his name. “I don’t see you doing anything worth reporting…” Well, aside from the constant and relentless flirtation.

“Ha...” He breathed, an absurd sound of innocence considering the tension in his spine, releasing fine tendrils of silver into the air. “Y'know, I was right. Knew you were a good one when I first saw you...”

“A good one?”

He hummed and rolled tension out of his shoulders, smiling to himself as if it were a private joke. The coarse grass rustled around you in a sudden breeze as the direction shifted. The uneven burn from the wind shortened his time with the cigar, he knew his session would be cut short. “Try'na savor these while I still can but the wind is makin’ that damn near impossible to do.”

“Where’d you get that from anyways? I can’t imagine they’re easy to get a hold of all the way out here.” _Out here_ , better known as the middle of nowhere.

“Sure aren't. Used to get my whiskey and cigars from ol' Sal, under the table."

"Used to?"

MCree gave you a smile, sad and knowing. "He ain’t with us anymore, not after what happened to our old base. All my supplies have been dwindlin’ out since then.” He paused as if he had startled himself by the sudden feelings that crept up alongside his casual mention like water overflowing in a cup. He choked, a near soundless thing, tiny and tight; there were too many memories, too many people he hadn't been prepared to lose. “I’d give it all up t’get Sal back, he was funny as hell and the only one I’d trust to get the good stuff. But the undertaker don’t make deals like that... Anyways, I only have a few left but if you ever feel up to it, you’re more than welcome. Suppose I’d even give you my last if y’asked for it.”

You felt more than you wanted to towards him saying so, the kindness of his gesture was not lost on you. You knew he would and that awareness only served to make you feel worse for taking a peek into his file. _Deadlock. Deadlock. Deadlock._ “I think you’d appreciate them more than I would.” You weren’t about to deprive him of one of his last joys, forbidden as it was. Closing your eyes to the skirls of wind, suddenly attacking the both of you, you asked, “What happened to the last base? What happened to Sal?”

McCree took a long, fortifying inhale, holding the smoke in his mouth and exhaling while baring his teeth for half a moment as he settled on the words. “Not supposed to bring it up. Shouldn’t have, but I got mad. Real mad.” You noticed the subtle bend of his eyebrows. “Nothin’ but bones an' ash now... the base and Sal.” He looked to you then with an emotion you had never quite seen him register before as the cigar shifted to his hand.

You sat in preserved silence, not about to dig but take only what he offered. 

He put the cigar back to his lips and spoke through the pain of remembering. “The whole damn place was blown up. Don't know how just know it happened.” He tried to sound detached but his voice cracked just enough to lend the emotional devastation it had been—or, still was. Your stomach dropped for him, you felt your expression shift appropriately. McCree seemed to understand, if not appreciate as well, how you appeared to consider the weight of what he had mentioned. “Fluffy was unloaded to our care just after it all happened. I wanna tell him just t'put him in his place for actin’ out and makin’ things so hard when we’re mournin’… but Pita would have my head for it. Not worth the trouble.” His gaze shifted, deciding eye contact was a little too direct and honest for the topic. “Lots of these ones back inside don’t know a thing about it. Supposed to keep it that way too, but…” His voice fizzled out. You imagined it was close to cracking again with emotion.

“But… you think we’re going to get blown up.”

Gently and expertly, he rolled the bone white end of the cigar over the asphalt that stood in place of a proper ashtray; the prohibition of the action forced him to become an expert of improvisation. His voice deepened as he did so, absent of cheer, flicking from carefully nursing it to meeting your gaze again. "That _or worse_. Can you blame me for thinkin’ that?”

You were quiet for a time, the look in his eyes of comprehensible anxiety and forcing your own voice to change pitch. You breathed, “No.” It was absolutely reasonable given the circumstances.

There was a long pause before he said anything else. He finished smoking his cigar, possibly relenting that he had only been carrying the one.

“Should we go back?” You asked, knowing that your return to the Commander’s office was inevitable and that there was no real decision to be made except for stalling. He nodded, grunting in compliance as he pushed himself away from the brick. You moved alongside him, if anything, in the lead for how begrudgingly he took each step. Trudging his way to detention.

“One last thing, Jesse…”

“Huh?”

“... I get Fluffy, but, Pita?”

He looked over his shoulder as he moved, knowing full well you were alone and that there was no one remotely close enough to hear. His voice still dropped to indicate that it was a secret that he was about divulge, eyes sparking once more, “Don’t you go tellin’ a soul now..."

“Alright, fine with me.”

“It stands for _pain in the ass_.”

You laughed so suddenly that it came out first as a cough before affirming: “You’re ridiculous.”

Ridiculous, yes, but no less endearing.

“Look, I ain’t above askin’ for a pinky promise here...” He held up a leather-wrapped hand, all fingers except for the one curled into his palm.

“Is that a cowboy thing? Pinky promises?”

He stopped walking, you realized a step or so after and swung around to face him.

“Keen on findin’ out how we do things where I’m from?” His false-challenging look was firm for only a second, staring down his nose at you, until something cracked and he fell flush into a wicked grin. He stood as if he were engaging you in a showdown, eyes both excited and animated.

“Well, _Jesse_ , I _reckon_ I am,” you attempted at the cost of your cheeks twitching to contain a smile. It worked for a few beats only to fall apart completely when he began shaking with laughter.

There was no foreseeable end to his or your teasing, apparently. But, that was accepted, and maybe worse still, appreciated above all.

McCree carefully plucked his hat off while resuming his slow saunter towards the office, dropping it on your head as he passed in a show of his unspoken admiration towards your attempt. He stretched his words out, smoothly but sweetly. “Y’know, I'm a _bad_ influence on you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Genji’s irises bloomed before acutely narrowing, his eyes tightening in awareness. Although he had a penchant for causing disruptions, he assumed a supernatural, meditative silence between incidents—a silence that was not lifted even as he noticed you still wearing McCree’s hat and walking in a matched pace next to him.

The hallway suffered with everyone experiencing the sure grip of suffocation in various degrees. You considered the ill-fated coincidence to be poetic, almost Shakespearean—precisely, a _tragedy_ — but were forced to remain in character least have to tolerate the humiliation of recognition. _Hey, I think I might have upset you back then if you still have feelings under all that metal. How are you holding up?_ As much as McCree might have found something touching about the perfect timing, his amusement kept tightly to himself, you felt the overwhelming urge to turn around and run back out into the biting cold of the merciless wasteland outside the heavy steel doors.  _That_ was much more palatable than the heat of the steady glare you were approaching.

Realistically, it had been an hour since you had faced Genji and the offense was still bleeding and raw. You were nowhere near prepared to face him again, feeling the unwanted pang of guilt and trying to chase it away by blatantly ignoring his presence, the entire moment seeming to prolong itself with false importance.

McCree, possibly reading the nonverbal hint you were broadcasting, had no intention of stopping his story. He had, however, made a point of staring directly at Genji as he passed by. You were unsure if the look registered, knowing where the brunt of Genji’s attention rested, feeling it burn into you no less. You considered that with any luck, the building would blow up just as McCree feared it would. But because it continued to stand, you were forced through Genji’s palpably enraged stare as he stood perfectly still because _naturally_ he was hoping to grab your attention.

The assumption echoed about your head: _“You’re into cowboys now.”_

Even in passing, him standing unfortunately on your side of corridor with maybe a foot of space between you, could you feel the shuddering intimacy of closeness, strained as it was. Noted then too was the exact weight of each other’s histories. Mutually.

Some things were better left in the past.

By the time McCree wrapped his story up, the hallway since twisting well away from Genji and appropriate distance filling the gap, you were completely lost in what he had tried to say. The punchline went over your head. McCree had noticed, mellow laughter halted in the stunning realization that he was alone in amusement and finding a blank expression resting over your face instead of the interest he had hoped for. Kindly, he said nothing of it, allowing you your quiet a moment longer before slipping into another story and hoping for a better outcome.

Of course, this was only after a sharp glace over his shoulder, half-expecting to see red eyes.

 

* * *

 

You reentered the commander’s office after reassuring McCree that he didn’t reek of cigars—though he did and little could be done about it then.

Commander Reyes already appeared to be past the previous awkwardness of your dismissal and there was no conserved look of scorn about his face. Deciding instead to idly organize all manner of things across his desk of questionable importance, he waited until you were both seated once again to assume eye-contact. The sound of paper scratching and shifting eased and stopped all together. With peace returned, somewhat, Reyes clasped his hands together at the edge of the desk looking dignified and reasonable.

“I’m ready to talk,” McCree said as if it were all that he owed to the room. His tone was firm and serious enough to prove sincerity without an ulterior motive or bite of resentment; you thanked the cigar but you ought to have congratulated yourself along with it.

The atmosphere responded, further easing and opening. Reyes had since rolled the blinds open and allowed the room to become soaked in mid-morning light, the backscatter of dust scintillated.

“I had my breather," McCree continued, "Could’ve done with a warnin’ though, damn cold out there...”

Reyes nodded towards McCree’s insistence, no further grit in his jaw or contempt in his stare, managing to insinuate the nature of their relationship. McCree was forgiven before he reentered, possibly as soon as he left the room. A verbal disagreement posed no real threat to their long established opinions of the other. It was strange but almost endearing to sit and observe the two identify the other without having to trudge through strained formal apologies. They simply understood and moved on.

“It’s _always_ cold here, even you know that,” Commander Reyes said as he picked up a single sheet of paper from off his desk. “Before we get carried away talking about the weather, I want you to read this. Both of you. Carefully.”

_God._

A picture of Genji was attached to the sheet with a paperclip, but a picture that had been taken before _all of it_. Genji when he was the likeness of a cover model, all smooth skin and dressed in a painfully well-made suit. The inside exposed in his confident stride was lined with fine silk in a seigaiha pattern, his shoes polished and spotless. A piece of his green hair hung in his face, an aesthetic choice, with pristine sunglasses sitting half-way down the bridge of his nose.  

Even still, you had known the picture was taken without his knowledge. You knew him better than that, what poses he would cycle though to fake a candid. Still, you wondered if the photographer who had taken it managed to get away without a shuriken or three in the face. That or a busted camera.

As you were fixated on the picture, your stupid, illogical heart choosing to pour your awareness into the wrong details, McCree had begun reading the first few sentences on the page out loud before his voice dampened and he fell quiet. He mouthed the words for a few more sentences, before becoming vocal again. Incredulous, stumbling through the pronunciation but forgiven immediately as it was not his language to know, “ _Shimada clan? Hanamura? Yakuza?_  What’s all this?”

None of the content on the paper was new to you and if anything at all, you were offended at the familiarity produced at each mention. You imagined, to the best of your abilities, what it would have felt if you could look at the picture of Genji and feel completely detached from it—from _him_. You imagined what it would have been like if you had never known him instead of having the specific, maddening ability to recall the forceful press of his hand to your throat, caught between the warmth of his chest and a cold marble floor... You pulled your hands into fists and squeezed. Hard. Your knuckles went pale in moments.  _That's so inappropriate. Stop._

With a short sigh of exasperation, Commander Reyes contended. “Didn’t I just tell you to read carefully? _Maybe_ there’s something in there I want you to know, _maybe_ you have more in common than just belonging to Blackwatch...”

 _Belonging to Blackwatch_ evoked a complicated awareness in you on its own but you shelved it. One thing at a time.

All the calm interest was hissed out of McCree's reply, “Boss, I've got nothin’ in common with _him_.”

Commander Reyes glowered through his impatience. “Just read.”

McCree challenged the look, but only for one brave second before he stamped it out and tipped his attention back down to the paper. He had initially slanted the sheet so that you could both see it but the more he read the closer he pulled it towards himself until it was parallel with his chest. You were unbothered, having only been skimming the page with pretend interest, unsurprised at what you had seen. You knew all about Genji’s father, Sojiro Shimada, and how terribly powerful the empire was all on a first hand basis. The paper only served an additional surreal element of awareness about it all, as if you could have been watching it happen through the screen of a television.

Once McCree finished, he leaned forward and pressed the sheet face-down on the desk. Commander Reyes reached for it before adding it back into the stack within the folder. You felt a sudden snap of clarity, the file was left out for that exact purpose.

“You’re welcome,” the commander sniffed out, his broad shoulders shrugging.

McCree was quiet, almost dazed in the aftermath. You considered his withdrawal as careful digestion of the information, deciding what he would make of it.

“You know how you asked me earlier what I want you to do in the meantime until we know more about these so-called threats?” Commander Reyes paused, McCree’s unfocused gaze pressing him to ask, “You still there, _kid_?”

 _Kid_  was said with the weight of time, as if it had used to the point of redundancy and lost all of its negative connotations. You figured McCree had to have been just about 30. He was no child and that much was obvious. But Commander Reyes had first "met" Jesse when he was young and tough and offered nothing but spite. _Kid_ was appropriate then, surely. Even so the person sitting before his desk was the same as the young cynical thing who refused to be hardened by military and politically corrupt dogma, refused to let bureaucracy ever breathe down his back.  _Kid_ was no insult. Inversely, it had been uttered with choked sentiment that crept up on the commander as he unearthed it.

You noticed the line of McCree's lips break, surfacing into awareness once again, baited into responding. “Yeah yeah,” hazy and low. “I'm here, I hear you...”

“Good." A tight smile. Or grimace, rather. "You’re gonna make nice with Red.”

“Hold up.”

Reyes lifted an eyebrow, powerful enough to halt McCree as he spoke. "Something to say about my orders, _do you_?”

McCree sucked in a breath, slow and equalizing, reminiscent of a puff on a cigar. His eyes shone with all the things that were halted at his teeth, flashing a desperate glance over to you. _Y'see this?_ _Pain in the ass... Just like I said._

The commander’s eyes swiveled from him to you in one smooth motion. “I’ll be expecting you to continue keeping tabs on the two of them. Closely, alright? I want them to know that they can’t put a single foot out of line without having to answer for it...”

“But,” McCree began, though tripped over his own tongue and faltered. Reyes held his hand up again in the air, the gesture to stop talking once again and controlling the narrative. You used the moment to spare McCree a look of sympathy, knowing all too well who was truly the instigator between the two. He gave you a shallow nod in recognition, swallowing tightly, all that he wanted to say caught in his throat.

“You’re a team.” Commander Reyes said while running his hand under his chin, his voice trailing out. “ _Supposed to be_ anyways, but what do I know? I’m just the commander.”

You felt the insistence behind the voice even as it wasn’t for you to recognize. You slowly pulled McCree back into view which proved the same recognition washed over him, too. Then a gap, a long pause and a break in the practiced veneer.

“I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t necessary.”

“That's all well an' good but he ain't interested in bein’ a team and he ain't interested in workin’ with us.”

“Then make him interested." Reyes came impressively close to making it sound as if it were possible. "Both of you.”

_Wait, why am I included in this?_

“Show him what you’re worth to Blackwatch, prove that you can be an asset _and_ an ally.” He leaned back in his chair, breaking the careful scrutiny of the faces that held him in tremendous disbelief. “He's stubborn, not stupid."

McCree was about to inject an option again but Reyes shut him down before he could utter another word.

"It’s not a punishment. It’s strategy. Shut up and prove it."

McCree murmured darkly, likely hoping the comment would stay under his breath. “I shouldn’t have t’prove anythin’ to him…”

“No?”

“Commander, he’s...”

“What? Spiteful? Defiant? Impossible?”

Both McCree and you had similar expressions— _all of the above, actually._

Commander Reyes accepted your shared confirmation before his expression switched, indecipherable as he stared directly at McCree. “And _you_ weren’t?”

Silence followed. Complete graveyard stillness. You could have sworn you heard the throb of McCree’s heart and from somewhere inside of you, the clear but soft insistence of truth. _Deadlock. Deadlock. Deadlock?_

McCree pressed a gloved hand to his face as if he couldn’t get a hold of it, it slid up to his forehead and remained there, knocking his hat askew. There was no sound of disapproval, no great sigh or anything of the sort that followed, just the look of refusal. Initially, at least, until he dropped his hand slowly as his gaze moved from you in his peripherals to Reyes.

“I reckon that order will just about be the end of me, commander.”

Reyes knew just what that meant. “So, you’ll do it.”

“ _Yessir._ ”

 

* * *

 

Neither of you had turned to look back at the commander after being dismissed. Even so, with the direction of his desk, Reyes observed with muted interest how McCree had offered to hold the door open for you and how in turn you had so questionably brushed by him in passing. Whatever judgements that began to assume themselves lapsed once the door swung shut and Reyes turned his nose up to suspiciously sniff at the air, catching something he hadn't previously.

“Need t’let off some steam after all that…” McCree gave a grimace of resignation, tipping his head into the words after mentioning that he was supposed to put the rookies through marksmanship training, bleakly adding that they needed all the help they could get. "Pita must be loosin’ it. Can't say I'm all too surprised that steel-trap of his is startin' to rust. Can you imagine me an’ Fluffy bein' friendly?"

“No but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try, right?” You offered. “Oh, I should have mentioned earlier but your nose looks much better today.”

He tried to play off his embarrassment. “Does it? Doc said it'll look better in no time so don't you start worryin' about me...”

“You know after all of this, if you and Genji get into another scrap, I won’t be so nice. Seems like Pita expects me to come down hard on you... Wait, what?”

He made a face, slick and deliberate. You rewound what you had just said until it made sense. _Come down hard._

“Well, that was a poor choice of words,” you clipped out, voice straining, holding back the eye-roll that was so desperately warranted.  _Jesus, I didn't mean it like that._

He shook his head as if it were a private joke with himself before coughing into a closed fist and silencing himself with a grin.

“I mean it, _Jesse_.”

“Oh, and I _bet'cha_ do...”

You pressed a hand to your face, half-agony and half-entertainment.

He shifted his weight as he stood, just enough of a conversationalist to loop back into another topic before either of you tripped up into further awkwardness. “So, when you mentioned you knew 'bout Fluffy…” he made an expression reminiscent of the day before in the infirmary, sharpening just enough for you to realize he had become somewhat serious once again. “Was he _like_ _this_?”

You assumed _like this_ was something to the tune of: _was he this much of a pain before?_ It was a tricky thing to think about and even harder to bring into words, let alone words that he would understand. You wanted to make it short and sweet but the truth was a little more dense and involved than that. You were sure that underneath Genji's remarkable crutch of wealth and inflated self-worth that he had the capacity to be kind. At least, that’s what you had told yourself three years earlier.

It took you an inordinately long time to consider and so much so McCree had furrowed his brow in apology, reading too much into the pause, “I said before that I didn't mean t'pry but here I am askin’ anyway...”

“No, it’s fine!” You insisted, a tad too firmly, his eyes widening at your tone but remaining blessedly receptive. After everything he had just shared with you you felt indebted to give him something useful, even if the question demanded more than you could offer. “Genji has always done things _his_ way.”

“His way? Y’mean, violently?”

“I mean, good or bad, he’s always been _violently_ himself.” Even you were surprised by your choice of words.

McCree looked as if he could have said something but stopped after an exhale. His focus switched from you to the floor, pulled into a thoughtful pout while pressing a thumb to his lip, removed from his quick wit, “Huh, now isn't that somethin'...” A soft smile rolled over him, the expression overthrowing his previous contemplation. He moved his hand from his lip to the brim of his hat, tipping it as you had come to expect. You registered a small sting in knowing that he was signaling his departure, unable to ignore the responsibility of instructing target practice any longer. “Well, I might'a put off leavin' a little too long. Best be off now.”

The scent of cigars clinging stubbornly to the heavy fabric of his cape filled your nose and lungs with its sudden richness as he moved by you. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, the complicated feelings that welled up between your conversations and the looks he gave you rushed about your head. In the same way you had taken to saying his name, you called out to him before he had moved too far: "Don’t miss.”

He stopped to peer over his shoulder. “Now, I don’t mean t’sound full of myself,” his profile was full of pride and his soft, warm drawl held something very close to danger, “but I _never_ miss.”

You could feel yourself want to respond just as smoothly, but were at a loss for words.

“I'll be seein’ you soon.”

“See you, _Jesse_.”

And then he continued his slow saunter off down the hallway and you found yourself smiling as you watched him round the corner but smiling almost _too_ much and enough that when you realized, you were very nearly mortified and all too thankful that there was no one around to witness it. You told yourself, in assurance,  _I like him a very normal, professional amount_ , while trying to contain the expression as best as you could.

But, you had begun to tell yourself all sorts of lies.


	7. Chapter 7

The frail 4 hour standard 'night’s sleep' at Overwatch was not a lost concept. It was hammered into the psyche of all old soldiers that sleep was a crutch and Commander Reyes was, by all accounts, an old soldier. Fortuitously, you were primed for the familiar brain fog that would eventually settle over you after enduring hours upon hours of being painfully alert. You were frequently behest by your team at your old post to recuperate, running off bullheaded pride and caffeine alone. _I can do this_ , your favourite mantra as you fought impossibly heavy eyelids. _I can do this, I can do this..._

The morning of your fourth day had started just as the ones prior. You had woken up from a luxurious _4 and a quarter_ hour sleep, milking an extra 15 minutes like it was gold before quickly washing and dressing. Moving from your dorm to the mess hall, you devoured a quick breakfast and once your tray was emptied you moved onwards to the Pit for physical training. It mattered little that your specific role was without the expectation of combat. You were scheduled and expected to show. So, you did. After PT, you showered and changed into your regulation black undershirt, drawstring sweater, and slick legging-style pants that most other operatives wore. You were easily distinguished by your lack of armor but no less comfortable for it, the uniform bearing little difference to your civilian clothes.

You would then traverse the base to reach your office, where you would spend the majority of your waking hours. The whole room supplied its own gentle hum from all the specialized and sophisticated equipment, advanced computers and 3D charts. But, since you were used to working quite literally over others, assigning and delegating, each morning you arrived, you could not avoid how strange it felt not to walk into a room that was bustling with activity. Then there was a matter of the assignment you had landed. You would have welcomed boredom, maybe even preferred it. Instead you struggled—limbo at the lowest tier, scraping the bar—praying your reputation would not get dragged along with you.

 _On top of everything else_ , as if the accumulation was not enough of a mental hurdle, Commander Reyes had made a point of periodically dropping in on you unannounced.

“I can email you when I find something if you prefer, sir?” You suggested, more for your own sanity than for practicality sake.

“No,” he said, unaffected, while hovering over your shoulder and watching you flick through items on a holoscreen. “This works for me.”

_Oh, okay. Great. Got it._

Your only other company was another intelligence specialist from a Watchpoint in Cape Town. Astor, a field agent, was adapting to being fettered to a desk. He was leanly muscled and clever-eyed, all folded analytical stoop as he worked, wiretapping and intercepting signals. Astor always seemed to be nursing a steaming mug of tea, a coping mechanism for the drastic climate change. He always seemed to look at you from behind perpetually fogged up his glasses and though he didn't speak much, he recognized and laughed at jokes when you made them.

So, aside from him being as quiet as a houseplant, he was great company.

By the time the fourth day rolled around and with a refill of coffee in his thermos, the commander made another of his unannounced visits. He leaned against the far side of the desk you were working at, assuming all the quiet power you were never surprised to read in his body language and with it, bringing both you and Astor to turn towards him in your chairs.

Reyes sucked back on his teeth, pressing one hand to his temple to pressurize his skull. “Progress?” He knew before anyone said a word that it was a stupid question.

Astor muted his earpiece, the glowing blue screen before him reflected cold light over his glasses as he pressed back in his chair, elbows positioned along the armrests. “ _Niks nie_ , sir. I’ve got nothing to report.”

“Same,” you fussed, frustration getting the best of you and your language for one hot second. It's not that you were in competition, but if you were, you would have been dead last. “Nothing but the same old _shit_.”

Commander Reyes diplomatically let the language slide, folding his arms over his chest and holding his sharp, formal posture.

For lack of anything else you could have said or done, an odd bubble of laughter surfaced and left you quavering in a tone of uncertainty. “Almost feels like we’re missing something important, essential—like the key. Commander, are you sure there isn't more to this assignment?” There was a subtle subversion in exposing your doubt to his face.

It was not unnoticed. The commander leered with his own misgivings, giving you a short and emphatic reply: “You know everything that I know. Nothing more, nothing less.”

From the corner of your eye, you noticed Astor bob his head in disagreement. This reminded you of one of the only things he had said yesterday, working well into the night. He had pushed the thick frame of his glasses up the bridge of his nose to rub his weary eyes and sighed.  _“It’s almost like we’re not supposed to find anything...”_

Commander Reyes kept having you chase aliases, leads that curled away from you like cigar smoke. Elaborate dead ends, ghost hunting. Following the latest Overwatch intel reports became the longest running game of Simon says you had ever been forced to play. _Overwatch intel says they’ve hit a firewall, tear it down. Overwatch intel says the encryption algorithm switched, they must have felt you coming. Overwatch intel says they’re mobile again, they’re crossing the Mediterranean and their IPs are liable to change. Again._

Your head throbbed at each update. _Who are they? How do they know so much about us and we know next to nothing about them?_ Hundreds of other pointed questions, all forced to wait while you told yourself that orders were orders, meanwhile being expected to find Bigfoot.

In fact, given four days, you might have even done _that_ by then.

Every escape amplified your sense of failure, every encounter where they came close enough to taunt before slipping away. It was deeply personal for many reasons, but that specifically. They were an insult to your capabilities and beyond that, terrifying—something vague and shapeless, of unbearable consequence. You understood the fate of Blackwatch was resting on your game of high-tech duck duck goose... but that was hardly something you wanted to have gnawing away at your conscience.

Reyes dropped his arms, pulling away from the desk while keeping you level in his stare. You felt his gaze turn you inside out, as if he could see into your head and how absorbed you had become in the task. He might have appreciated it had the stakes not been raised to the height you assumed they were. You toughened up in turn, finding your voice once again.

“I can do this.”

You sounded more sure than you deserved to be under the circumstances. It hadn’t felt like the truth or even a sustainable lie but you said it and made no attempt to take it back. _I can do this. I have to do this._

 _Interesting_ , he thought to himself, finding imprecise relief at your confidence, then reluctance because that meant _Morrison was right._ The commander flared his nostrils, deciding it was still too premature to jump to _that_ conclusion.

“You wear your frustration, you know that? How you feel, it’s all over your face.” The commander hitched into pause, for consideration or otherwise. All of his finest were always _so exhaustively emotional_. “I know it’s not easy, that's exactly why I haven’t demanded anything except for the occasional update...” His gaze sharpened before he allowed it to soften back into to something less stern and paternal. “Don't give up _._ ”

There was a glance in there that implied significance meant to go over Astor’s head, which only affirmed what your intuition had been stuck on. The look itself had all the same effect as the commander jumpin up onto the closest desk and screaming at the top of his lungs.  _This is exactly what you think it’s about._

The awareness in you was cold and deliberate. You said nothing, giving a slow, careful nod in return.

He responded to the nod with a calculated blink and a tilt of his head. “To standard, not time. I’m counting on you.”

The parting word Reyes left you with were both a deeper pit in your stomach and cause to try harder, as if you had not already pushed yourself to the limits of your expertise. As ridiculous as it was, you felt that damaged part of you bandaged up in his encouragement. But, your motivation would return only to fizzle out again. It _really was_ beginning to look hopeless.

If it wasn’t for McCree coming to check on you, you might have fell into a worse mood. You knew it was him before he poked his head into the room because unlike the commander, McCree would give a quick and courteous knock. If you listened closely, the sound of his spurs rattling over the faded linoleum of the hallway gave him away well before that, like a cat with a bell fixed to their collar.

You had come to understand that McCree had been just as busy as you were, recently tasked by Reyes with temporarily taking on all the responsibilities of squad leader since the incident at the last base. Much of his time was spent rallying up different divisions and organizing them, a task that came to him naturally having spent so much time around Commander Reyes. He had to ensure the new agents were prepared, tactically and otherwise. While part of you empathized with how overworked he had been, there was another part that was proud to know he had accepted and adapted as seamlessly as he had.

“How are you managing?” You asked as he approached.

McCree replied, his voice startling only because you were used to pin-drop silence in the room more often than not, “I open my mouth an’ I swear I hear Pita’s command voice. Even called one of them  _kid_.”

Genji had not made any trouble since your run-in with McCree. In fact, he had been avoiding you so well and completely that the issue had become his absence rather than his presence. You were toying with the idea that he had taken off. You wondered, provided Genji was able to take instruction and do as he was asked, if Reyes would have trusted him as a squad leader as well. Genji was sharp and visceral, capable of all manner of deeds, and you knew he could have handled it if he was given the chance. Perhaps he would have found an equal amount of value in the position as the recruits that would have surely looked up to him... 

McCree—likely taking his precious, designated sleeping hours to come socialize instead—brought an offering in hand with him. Eyes wide and gleaming, he held onto a sandwich, halved and carefully tucked away in a white paper napkin. “Made it myself. Stole,” he coughed into his free hand, “er, _skillfully acquired_ the ingredients…”

“Hard to believe no one noticed the cowboy sneaking about." You took it as he offered, a smile curling over your lips."Don't those spurs give you away?”

"Maybe I was barefoot."

“Maybe you were. Seems like an awful lot of trouble for me. Will I be seeing your face on a wanted poster because of this?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time. You’re worth all the fuss and the possible incarceration.” He grinned, devilishly, before his voice gave away into genuine appreciation. “Don't think I haven't noticed how hard you’ve been workin’ since you got here, especially if Pita hasn't made a point of sayin’ so himself.”

“He has. Just not like _this_ and _t_ _his_ is preferable.” You gestured, only realizing how hungry you were with food under your overworked nose. “Thoughtful of you to risk your hide.”

You kept one half in hand, offering the other back to him. You had correctly read hunger in his eyes because he accepted with a little “don’t mind if I do” and a gracious nod before slipping his gloves off and stowing them along his belt, ridiculous buckle shining in the supplied glow of the holocharts.

“Hey, not for nothin’ but you’re lookin’ real stressed. Somethin' the matter?”

“Oh, _thanks_.”

He naively bought into the belief that you felt insulted and tripped over himself to talk you out of the offense. “Hey... Didn’t mean to say that you look bad! Bet’cha couldn’t even if you tried.”

_Breathe. Ignore it. Respond..._

“Are you sure about that, _Jesse_?”

_... Respond, not make it worse._

He winked. “Would this face lie to you?”

You continued, pretending not to register the shameless flirtation knowing that you were one more wink away from getting flushed in the face. “If I’m looking stressed, it’s because I am. Commander Morrison kept us well staffed and spoiled so I'm not used to these conditions. Astor is great,” you threw him a little appreciative nod, which he seemed to smile at to himself as he worked, “but this is quite literally a skeleton crew and I need, like, 10 more of him. Preferably.”

“And a McCree?”

“Sure. 10 Astors _and a McCree_. I need all the help I can get with Commander Reyes asking for a needle in a haystack that might not even exist in the first place.”

“The needle or the haystack?”

_Ha._

"Both, I guess.”

McCree's eyes sharpened to fully gauge your expression. “Suppose it wouldn't be the first goose chase ‘round here. I’d help you out in a heartbeat if I knew how but I can't quite be useful when my forte is aimin' and shootin'.” He quieted himself before asking in earnest. “Makes Overwatch easy to miss, I bet?”

“Well... yes.”

A pause rolled into the conversation. The hard, defining lines of his face, obscured by his facial hair, stiffened. You saw the look of someone debating on whether or not they wanted speak until finally he did with the slightest parting of his lips, as if it were a question he hadn't really wanted to ask. “Would you go back?”

You tried to sound prepared to answer, “I haven't thought about it.”

“I think you’d stay.” 

“Yeah? Why’s that?" 

He gave you a knowing expression, both sly and horribly endearing. “You’d miss me too damn much.”

“Fair enough. I guess I’ll have to stay here as long as they let me.”

He gave a swift tilt of his head into your agreement. It dawned on you then that even if he was being playful, saying otherwise might have crushed his spirits, considering how the skin about his face and ears had become tinged with a pale pink. You both held onto your food, poised to eat but neither taking a bite. Still. You both appeared to have remembered then what you were holding onto and chose that moment then to take a synchronized bite, stuffing the moment with something else besides skittish glances towards the other.

“Alright, you may or may not have just brought me the best sourdough I’ve ever had...”

“It is good, huh?” He spoke into the back of his hand with a full mouth, some good-natured attempt at showing manners.

You were still working on yours by the time his hands were empty, leaving you somewhere between feeling revolted and thoroughly impressed. It took some kind of talent to devour something so quickly.

“You know, you’re more welcome to keep bringing me food.”

“Don't fret, I plan on it.” He chuckled, spying mustard on his thumb and licking it clean with a swipe of his tongue. And for all the impure feelings the visual inspired, you did your absolute best to pretend you were unfazed, sliding back into your chair and pressing a hand to your burning cheek.

He pulled his gloves from where he stowed them about his belt, slipping them on with a deliberate slowness. The leather looked tough and study but he had no reason to make a show of it. “Now that lunch is taken care of, if I asked you to follow me right now on an adventure, would’ya?”

“Planning on raiding the kitchen again?” Your enthusiasm rolled forward then reduced with a slight sneer towards the monitor of your computer. “I mean, I would but I really should get back to work...”

“Aw,” he crooked his head to the side, still having the nerve to look at you with eyes that gleamed with a steady mischievousness. “Let me be a bad influence on you.”

You looked at him sidelong. He fluttered his lashes, theatrically, clasping his hands together. You wondered how ridiculous the requests would become if you kept denying the offer.

Astor's voice rose from behind the both of you, prompted by all the noise in the usually silent room, “I'll cover for you if Commander Reyes stops by again.”

McCree, outing himself further as a tremendous dork, had the absolute gall to make finger guns. Un-ironically. You would forgive him in time  _only because_ it was so stupidly precious.

“I owe you one, Astor,” you managed, before hands clamped down on your shoulders and steered you out of the room.

 

* * *

 

McCree lead you back out into the barren frontier that was no more warmer—or colder— than the days prior. Sun streamed in bars as it broke through thick clouds and the world around you was a slow to load video game, rendered halfway, obscured by mist rolling in. The flatland eventually gave out into unstable, geometric angles as the ground became sharp with mountains that jut out of the ground like fangs.

"You're _slightly_ more ridiculous than usual today," you said to him. 

"Am I?" He sneered. Light blanched his skin as he turned his chin up to the sky. He could have been sleeping, the time was sacrificed to see you. "Honestly, I'm just so damn tired. Not really all that surprised if I'm actin' strange."

“Where are we going?”

“To the range,” he responded, smooth as ever.

You laughed, nervously. "Convince me this is a good idea if you're tired..."

"Oh," he rolled his shoulders, "I do this in my sleep."

“Sounds like you're really looking to show off or something, _Jesse._ ”

“Well, I’d have to say,” he cocked his head towards you, unbroken in stride, “that all depends on how easily impressed y’are.”

A silence swayed between your bodies until you stood in the makeshift firing range; a high retaining wall, made of packed sandbags, a catcher's mitt for misaligned shots or strays, fenced you in and kept the winds from biting. McCree went to the trouble of fixing a fresh target in one of the lanes, clipping up a transitional target in the shape of a person without being specifically human, differentiated by the intensity of shading.

“I want you to call six shots." He said, pulling a polished revolver from his holster.

Your heart fluttered at the sight of the cowboy, so effortlessly authentic. All that was missing was the screeching of a hawk overhead.

“Go for the heart.”

“That’s ruthless... You tryin’ to make me fall in love or somethin’?” You were obliged with a pull of the trigger. A gunshot, echoing like an overfilled balloon bursting into a microphone, shattered the ambient air. He gestured with his free hand towards the target; if it had been a person, it would have been fatal. The smile that spread over him was decidedly unnecessary, continuously maddening for how well it fit his face.

“Next?”

“Groin.”

“Talkin' like you're after my own heart...” Followed by another gunshot.

Once you were down to the final call, you pointed through to the target as if marking the spot with your pointer finger: “I want this one right between the eyes.”

“You sure?”

“One hundred percent.”

His smile was a tight, tiny thing. “Bless you.”

The final gunshot left him with an empty cylinder. He gave the six-shooter an impressive spin before sliding it back into the holster, watching as your eyes flickered over the paper, stopping at each of the precise holes blown through.

“Told you so," said the low, buttery drawl.

You hummed a response, words escaping you in the moment. You felt little threads of blood in you twitch for the accuracy and effortlessness; if he was your enemy, he would have been all the more terrifying for it.

McCree's weighted stare held you though the flyaways, his hair licked and fussed by wind fluttering under his hat. “What do you have to say about _that_?”

The repertoire grew. Cowboy—no, outlaw? Yes. Gunslinger? Yes. Exhibitionistic? Probably. This was flaunting, peacocking his talent. Surely. For that, you gave him restrained praise, mouth caging the smile you desperately wanted to retaliate with. “Not bad.”

“Not bad?” You assumed there would be offense but instead, he grinned to himself. “Well, damn. I’ll take what I can get.”

“Someone has to put you in your place, _Jesse_.”

He stepped up to you, rolling the target in on itself until it was coiled tightly in his hands. “And what place, pray tell, is that?”

You felt your heart approximately beat out of your chest for one quick moment as you searched yourself for something clever to say in retaliation. He knew he had you, recognized by a shrewd raise of an eyebrow. It grew tense between you and only so because the feelings he had begun to stir were _inherently inappropriate_. If your life had been a grindhouse porno, the moment would have swelled with sensuous jazz music and he would have begun stripping.  _Jesse McCree, what are you trying to do to me?_

Thankfully, the conversationalist that he was—and had to be for always laying the charm on so thick and obviously—he cleared his throat as if you had not just reached the precipice of a very heavy moment. “So, you’re a better shot than I am, huh?”

Your tactical skills were largely theoretical, present but unpracticed. “What? No, not even close.”

He laughed warmly as he crooked a finger towards you. “I wanna see.”

You slinked up to his side, heart pounding heavier if at all possible as he pulled his six-shooter back out from the holster and issued a lightening-fast reload; a skill mastered out of necessity but showy simply because he could, because you were watching so closely and he just could not find the restraint in him now that things had become so interesting.

“Quick fingers,” you noted in your observation.

That secretive smile reappeared, the one that could easily rope you into trouble. “Nothin’ but.”

You screwed your eyes shut as the possible innuendo sunk in, slow to catch it once again. “I meant—“

“I know what you meant…” He silenced you with a purposeful wink, properly conscious of where the barrel was pointing as he handed you his gun. “Here. Show me what’cha got.”

You lined yourself up for the shot in the adjacent lane, pointing the barrel at old target full of holes in the gut and none to the head. The bullet you shot, sound making your arm draw back awkwardly, clipped the edge of the target. Way, way off kilter.

“Perfect... If that’s where you were aimin’.”

"Quiet," you laughed through the sting of humiliation. “As if I could best the guy in the cowboy hat."

And quiet he was as he moved tortuously close to your back without any more warning than the soft exhales he pushed through his nose. You were enveloped by his body heat and the faded richness of cigars that refused to untangle from his scent. “Only takes one bullet if you do it right an' do it well..."

“Two in my case.”

“Shush,” he chuckled, darkly, before finding his semi-serious bearings. “I want you to focus for me, alright?”

Hard but doable. You had to force yourself into ignoring how blatantly close he stood.

“Mark...” He offered minor adjustments from your side, pulling your shoulders back and pressing up on your forearms until you were textbook. He backed away from your stance to give you space, admiring your position. Pumped with confidence, he commanded: “Draw.”

You shot and fell into loose-limbed satisfaction for the instant jolt of adrenaline, an intoxicating feeling by itself. Everything was particularly vivid in the moments after pulling the trigger as you looked towards the target, hole in the dead center where you wanted it.

You heard McCree suck in a breath as you both squinted down the range. He whistled, a long drawn out sound of surprise before nodding, transparently thrilled. “You’re a natural!”

“No, just a quick learner,” you assured him. “That and maybe lucky...”

You watched his thrilled look deepen with a raise of an eyebrow. You just knew what chord you had unintentionally struck.

“... And you’re going to call me 'Lucky' now, aren’t you?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said, approaching you again to retrieve his gun. Your head swam at the proximity as he lingered until it was glaringly evident he should have backed away and that there was no need for him to occupy the space that he chose to. Finally, bittersweet but expected, he asked under the threat of a smirk. “Ready to head back?”

You gave him a nod while fighting a shiver that let itself loose down your spine. 

_I like him a normal, professional amount._ _Normal. Professional. Reasonable._


	8. Chapter 8

Astor shot up out of his seat as if he had spilled steaming hot tea into his lap, yanking his headset off and having it unceremoniously clatter over the perch of his sophisticated console. His eyes were wide behind cloudy, fogged up glasses. “Shit... Shit. _Shit!_ ”

After a week of cat-and-mouse, you had 'them' right where you wanted them.

For a moment.

McCree, who had still been making his daily visits in place of going back to his dorm, stirred at the sound that broke the preserved quiet of the room. _“Can’t sleep even if I tried,”_ he made a point of saying, ironically only moments before he tipped his hat over his eyes and drifted off at the empty desk across from you. You arguably had the quietest corner of the entire base; sometimes the internal cooling fans from the room’s equipment would flare to life and sound angry from your constant overuse but there was hardly ever much more than that. Even the commander’s office was louder. McCree told you Reyes often listened to music when he was alone and you had yet to decide what bands would constitute as _“dad rock”_ but found the idea amusing enough.

Even so, it was nice to look past the monitors and projections of your crowded workstation to find him quiet and peaceful, napping with his cape pulled around him like a blanket. As much as you enjoyed his company, you knew the rare moment where he was able to rest was important too. He wore those dark circles around his eyes with all the quiet pride that he could.

“Are you okay?” You asked Astor, reflexively, turning in your seat to find him pacing over an imaginary drawn-out square. “What’s going on? Burn your tongue again?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Astor quavered. He swallowed roughly before a deep, calming breath, pointing downwards towards his desk. “Well, not fine. But fine. I mean, all this time I thought his assignment would be the death of me... _As die perde horings kry..._ ”

You threw a quizzical bend of your eyebrows at him.

“When horses grow horns,” he translated.

“When pigs fly?”

Astor nodded enthusiastically before returning to what had brought him to use the idiom in the first place. “Can we save the _pigs and horses_ for later?  _I did it_.”

“You did what exactly?”

“I heard _something_ just now.”

A very dazed McCree grunted, body still melted into the rigid curvature of the chair. “Woah... What’s all this commotion for?” The question hung in the air for a second or two before he shimmied his hat back and leaned forward into the desk, recognition dawning over his features. “Wait, did you say y’heard somethin’?” A very brief flicker of excitement traveled over him. “That _is_ what he said, right?”

You nodded in confirmation and watched how his eyes filled with shock, the coppery-ring shrank against a swell of dilation.

Surprise had leached Astor of his methodical stoop, shoulders downturned and pulled back. He stood stiffly, terrified of his own luck. “That's exactly what I said, yeah.”

Your bones felt disordered and jumbled as you pushed yourself to stand, turning away from McCree to face Astor. “Are you positive?”

“I’m absolutely sure of it,” Astor asserted, gentle shine of sweat over his brow glistened in the projections that framed him. “I know what I heard, I—”

“What’d they say?” McCree demanded, using his newly adopted command voice, standing as vividly alert as a spooked deer in the flush of headlights. “I want every little detail you've got.”

The look in his eyes spurred a shiver down your spine.

Astor complied, regurgitating data. “Man-in-the-middle attack, unencrypted access point. Almost _too_ easy, _too_ convenient considering the past few days. Mobile phone. Likely a burner, so, unlikely we’ll get another hit with the same number. Location data says Dawson, Yukon—”

“Right on our damn doorstep!” McCree growled, pressing his lips into a frown before he continued with spite threaded into each new word. “Bet they’re in some little rundown diner out there, sippin’ shitty watery coffee and laughin’ at us...”

Your nose crinkled. “That’s  _incredibly_ specific.”

“It’s what I’d do,” McCree reasoned. There was an obvious story there. “Know for a fact that there ain’t nothin’ worse than the coffee on Route 66...”

“Tell me all about it later.” You shook your head at him while shelving the thought before urging Astor to continue.

“They mentioned the commander. One side asked the other if they had received the bit about him, the other side confirmed before stating the attack vectors were prepared—”

“The hell does that have to do with any of this? And what _about_ Reyes?” McCree’s body wove around the desk in his path, nearing you and Astor. “You’re sayin’ those elusive sons of devils are keepin’ tabs on him? On us?”

“That’s what it sounds like,” Astor verified, maintaining a good arm’s length distance away as he advanced.

McCree swiveled toward you, unmistakably disturbed. “You hearin’ all this?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I’ll fetch Pita.”

But, strangely enough, when Reyes made his appearance, he had acted largely unaffected as the three of you scrambled over yourselves to make a verbal report. You knew better than to expect praise, Commander Morrison had primed you for that already, but were no less disappointed finding his face unchanged. He took in the details assuming his characteristic tilt, leaning by the wall at the door with folded arms. He remained entirely unfazed, even in learning that they had mentioned him specifically. You supposed he was more than used to hearing his name in the enemy's mouth but assumed there would be special consideration.

There was distracting neutrality about the reply Commander Reyes gave as if he were shrugging off a conversation about the weather— like a distracted parent listening to children ramble about something that went over his head.

“Good. Stay on top of it.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning brought a swirling sky of bitter oranges and old gold. You caught the sun peaking out over the horizon as you passed the frosted windows of the winding east hallway. Even with the fleece lining of your hooded sweater, it was still damn cold and getting steadily colder. The new thick socks from the armory had only fractionally helped in combatting the chill– and they were thick enough for you to warrant wearing boots that were a half-size too big.

With breakfast over and PT leaving you more inclined to crawl back into bed than to your workstation, you made your way to your office. After a dubious night’s sleep, some small part of your mind unable to let go of Commander Reyes and his underwhelming response, you moved slowly. Reluctantly.

 _I think I would have even accepted a high-five..._ _Well, maybe not a high five, per say, but something._

There you were in the midst of everything, a complete lack of order in comparison to the parameters you were used to, forced to carry on as if the entire situation was normal— and this was all blatantly in addition to the presence of an authentic cigar-smoking cowboy and your not-so-dead ex-boyfriend that would short-circuit any metal detector he walked through. As far as you were concerned, Blackwatch would forever leave your head spinning.

You had hardly reached your office, navigating to on half-remembered instinct, when you heard an alert from your main console. You found an unassuming message from Commander Reyes that suggested you check out the annex around noon. You responded promptly but received nothing in return and went through the entire morning without further context. As if you needed another distraction.

Once the middle of the day approached and McCree showing up like clockwork, you were quick to inform him about the message from Reyes and he had been equally as quick to decide to go with you.

 

* * *

 

The annex was a tall, echoey thing that sat beside the main building; constructed for temporary purposes but remained standing since the old inhabitants abandoned operations. Blackwatch used it as a makeshift garage for repairs and storage. It was all cracked cement like sun-baked soil and bare suspended light bulbs from impossibly high ceilings. Commander Reyes stood in the only occupied bay and turned towards you and McCree once he heard the ringing of spurs and the squeal of the door. He wore the mildest look of surprise seeing you two together, apparent to him that that you were becoming a sort of package deal.

“Still awake, huh?” Reyes snorted, calling over as you approached to the cowboy at your side, “I remember when you used to sleep in..."

“Guess I picked up a thing or two from you after all this time.”

“Yeah, sure,” Even a soft shake of the commander’s head would only reduce the fond smile so much. “Well, now that you’re both here I’d like you to formally meet the newest addition to Blackwatch.”

Two gleaming, impressive looking ATVs that appeared to have been injected with vehicular steroids. Each souped up with thick bullet-proof windshields, hi-clearance suspension, responsive power steering, custom aluminum tires. Everything you can upgrade, upgraded. Their paint emulated Blackwatch’s colour scheme perfectly, one milk white and the other a pearly red.

“Nice, right?” The commander boasted. It was more statement than genuine question. “The payload capacity on these things is just unheard of...”

With a low whistle, McCree gave them a careful once-over. “Didn't think to mention these before?”

“Sorry I didn’t run it by you first, kid.”

“Aw, that’s not what I meant and y’know it.” But from how his voice deflated, it sounded as if that was exactly what he meant. A week ago, McCree’s subtle pout would have gone unnoticed by you. Instead, it was the first thing you searched for.

Commander Reyes went on to roughly explain his new toys as being a part of _Plan Z_ , which was then roughly explained as a last ditch effort—the only remaining option left to fall back on when plans A through Y fail. “Planning is smart. It’s all relative,” he concluded, puffing his chest out.

He also went on to mention that they were a lot more fun to drive than the snowcats—hell of a lot more horsepower, too—except one of the two had been as good as dead the moment it arrived. The thing refused to turn over.

“They look impressive, at least…” You added, thoughtfully, which was hardly a stretch to confess.

“Maybe.” The mechanic, Scout, flexed a wrench towards the red one; she had been dutifully working on it for the larger part of the morning and had no more enthusiasm towards it. She swiped her hair to the side with the back of her hand after deeming it clean enough. “It’s just a nice lookin’ piece of crap... No offense meant commander, sir.”

And _a nice looking piece of crap_ was a fitting metaphor for the person who slunk into the room as Scout spoke.

_Oh, you're still alive, are you?_

Genji had his sweater slipped on but left it unzipped, framing his partial cybernetics, the hood pulled over his slicked hair. You wondered if he too felt it getting colder before the thought fizzed out and his glitchy eyes became level with your. To avoid acknowledging his attention, you looked upwards and nearly blinded yourself by the overhead bulbs. _Still worth it,_  you reassured yourself, screwing your eyelids shut. You'd rather see spots dancing in your vision than suffer through eye-contact.

Commander Reyes transitioned, to acknowledge Genji’s presence. “If you came here looking to break them, like everything else you get your hands on, you’re too late. Logistics beat you to the punch.” He grumbled, pressing a hand to the back of his toque, adding tenderly, “I suppose you could fight them if you really wanted to.”

"You think so highly of me," Genji clucked his tongue softly, coming to life and ripping his gaze away from you, voice dripping with sarcasm, “I am truly honored, sir.”

Even Scout wheeled around slowly at the tone he dared using, making a face towards you and McCree.

Commander Reyes, in a habit you had only seen him fall back on in the presence of Genji, stretched his neck from side to side. The joints cracked loudly in response, likely as he had intended. Then, he moved on to his fists, brazenly rolling his knuckles in the opposite palms. “Red?” You swore you felt McCree flinch at the tone.

Genji responded in his voice of unshakable boredom, as if no conversation was worth his attention. “Yes, commander?”

Reyes sniffed before gently explaining. “I’m about one comment away from tying those _goddamn_  cords of yours to the cargo mats and driving all the way out to the ridge, dragging you over miles of permafrost.”

Genji’s eyes widened. With interest.

_“¿Comprendes?”_

Genji exhaled, gave an uninhibited laugh, entirely lacking concern. “I understand, sir.”

"Good. One more comment, Red. Don’t strain yourself pushing me today because I'm at my limit already.”

“Yes, commander.”

“So!” Scout injected, unable to parse sitting through any more of their uncomfortable back and forth, clapping her hands together and drawing everyone’s attention. “Commander Reyes, it’s ready for a test drive when you are.”

Genji volunteered, immediately, which came to you with little surprise. The ATVs looked like they were incredibly capable of going _very, very fast_ and that alone spoke his language of pounding adrenaline but Commander Reyes rolled his eyes at the offer. McCree volunteered as well which earned a scathing comment from Genji, whose eyes flicked towards him as quick as the tail of a pissed-off cat.

“I thought cowboys rode horses.”

McCree entertained responding, some waggish remark trapped on the mischievous curve of his lips. He inhaled to speak but became interrupted by foresight, understanding saying anything at all could warrant the wrong reaction from the commander and as much personal satisfaction he might have gained, he held back from saying a word. Genji had, understandably, loathed entirely being ignored but he loathed even more to watch McCree press one of his gloved hands to your shoulder. Imagination taking special liberties or not, you could have sworn you heard McCree sneer triumphantly, perceptive to the shift in tension in the room. The display of affection had Genji tensed, which was only temporarily triumphant because the commander severed the moment by assigning you the task of the test drive.

That alone was a very Reyes thing to do: narrow down the one person who flatly did not want to be involved, and proceed to push them into it.

“Why me, exactly?” You asked with the weakest shade of disagreement woven into your voice.

“You’re the impartial third party. That a good enough reason for you?” Or, in other words, _get on the damn ATV._

“Commander,” Genji started, slinking forward, “what about the Orca?”

“Not a chance, Red. You were closer asking to drive these.”

“I see. And what if I behave?”

“I’m not about to reward you for something you're _already_ supposed to be doing...”

You advanced the red quad as if it were a sleeping bear, tuning out the conversation behind you. You asked Scout, who stood close enough for you to notice freckles underneath the smear of oil and grime on her face, if it were possible that the thing could burst into flames or something equally as horrific as it started up. Scout declined with a small, causal shake of her head. “It shouldn’t.” She idly wiped her hands on a well-used rag leaving you were unsure if they were getting any cleaner than before. “If it does, we have fire extinguishers here. Somewhere.”

_Great._

Her voice pitched, becoming a touch more reassuring. “You’ll be fine! They handle like your standard civilian hovercar... Probably.”

You somehow doubted that.

“Bikes, then,” she corrected herself after flashing a careful smile.

Vaulting the seat and settling up over the leather, you watched Scout move along to the rusted garage door. It peeled back slowly until the barren stretch of land was made available to you. The sky had since settled into its usual symphony of pale blues and greys behind a partial veil of spun sugar clouds. The wind howled and yawned, darting into the annex. You would have shivered from the sudden drop in temperature if you hadn’t already been shivering in anticipation.

 _It’s just like riding a bike._ But then your mind went to the trouble of taking you back to the memory of being a kid with underdeveloped sense of balance, replaying every incident where you had fallen off of one in neat succession. Every scraped knee and elbow, the unkind gravel and asphalt...

You grit your jaw.  _I can do this._

“Hey daredevil, want a helmet?” The commander offered some sleek polycarbonate thing with a clear visor, holding it out towards you.

You decided that a helmet would be unnecessary for a quick lap around the yard. You didn't think past that because you had zero desire to test the ATV’s full capabilities. But then again, you declined because you had also not planned on starting the thing up and having it roar to life without incident then _feeling a body impose itself behind you_ , scooting you up the seat in turn. There was no hesitation as they did so, only a graceful leap and a push. There was no _do you mind_ , just  _this is happening like it or not._

And of course, the body curled around you belonged to Genji. The cyborg took hold of the wide handles, forcing you to lean forward with your back pressed tightly to his chest. You were completely removed you from the possibility of jumping off, his limbs barring you on like a rollercoaster ride.

He had the nerve to breathe a warning in the first seconds after contact, the sound of his voice closer to your ear than you’d prefer it but necessary over the thunderous purring of the engine. “Hold on tight.”


	9. Chapter 9

“Red, don't you dare—”

The commander’s voice materialized from behind you as solid and careful as any hostage situation, growing louder as he approached the rear of the ATV in an effort to yank the cyborg off. But with an entitled, sure grip on the throttle, Genji revved obnoxiously to drown Reyes out and whatever it was he was trying to get across. You thought you heard McCree say something too but all sound was censored and lost to you.

And then, everything happened very fast.

With the tip of his toes, Genji nudged your foot off a pedal that you had been absently pressing down on and with the brake disengaged, you lurched forward sharply, rocketing out of the garage and into the blue vale through shafts of pale light that escaped the clouds overhead. Every nerve was alight as wind cut directionless patterns over the skin of your face. You rushed the field as momentum continuously jerked your body back as if it were weightless, maintaining a disturbing level of closeness to the carbon fibre plating that curled around you.

Once you could process all that had happened in the first high-octane seconds, you hoped that Genji was an adept enough driver to make it through the joyride without incident. Secondly and possibly more so than the first, you wished you had enough foresight to have taken the helmet the commander offered.

In a single bright moment of prophetic intelligence during an otherwise stupid haze, Genji slowed down to test the brakes. Proving to thankfully work as they should, the ATV slid to complete stop over the frozen ground like a hot knife through butter. In stillness, the air around you smelled of freezing concrete, rusted metal, exhaust, and the faintest of pomade; his hood had blown back since flying out of the annex, exposing faceplates that glinted in the sunlight and blue-black hair, gleaming and slick like an awful bruise.

“To think Reyes wasn’t going to let me drive this thing…”

“Genji,” you reasoned, speaking slowly and contrasting the obscene kicking of your pulse. It was quiet enough that you knew he could make sense of what you were saying, quiet enough that you knew there was no way for him to ignore the throbbing in your chest. “Let me off. Please. This isn’t funny.”

“Hmm.” He considered, very calmly, before responding in a tone that matched your own. “I don’t think I want to. Not yet.”

You lost your diplomatic voice. “Are you out of your mind or something?”

His cybernetic hand closed around the throttle, gripping with incremental intention while keeping his foot pressed firmly on the break. The rumble of the bike answered you first. “Let’s find out!”

And then he began accelerating in one long run only to break hard and slide into a sharp turn, invoking the delicate nature of a human centrifuge, high-g training reserved for priming astronauts and pilots for a loss of gravity. Pulling through without getting physically sick was the real trial. Everything else was just motion and vibrations.

During all of this, McCree decided there was only one thing to do. He hopped up onto the other quad and gave the controls a careful scan. He sneered finding the key had been left in the ignition; it was ripe for the taking and that was just one more push in the direction he was naturally inclined to take. “Well, I’ll be…”

“So, Red gave you a great idea, huh?" The commander advanced to talk him down from it; Red alone was a liability, arguably continuously, but so was Jesse if he wanted to get all stupid and competitive. "Everyone is really taking it upon themselves to make me regret these...”

“Regret’s got nothin’ to do with this. Fluffy thinks he's slick.”

“And?”

“ _And_ he ain’t.” McCree threw a determined grimace over his shoulder towards the commander. “Sorry, boss. You know me better than t’just hang back and watch from the sidelines.”

 _“¿No qué no, eh?”_ Reyes, who knew there would be no stopping the cowboy, sighed. “And what are you going to do when you catch up to him? Run him over?”

“I’ll make it _damn_ clear he knows who he’s dealin’ with, that’s what.”

McCree went hurdling off with one hand pressed to the top of his head, unthinking to set his hat down and so doomed to hold onto it or lose it. He rose on his haunches against the whipping arctic winds as if— _yes, really_ — he had been riding some great mechanical horse, cape flailing and tearing through the air behind him.

The commander pressed both hands to his temples, watching the chase begin with all the detachment of witnessing an imminent collision. “No different than oil and water...” And even quieter, he might have said something like, _and_ _we’re all fucked because of it_ , provided anyone had been standing close enough to catch him muttering.

There was terrible joy in Genji, knowing he had tempted more into his madness. He swerved suddenly to charge into McCree in an impromptu game of chicken, who pulled the metaphorical reins at the perfect time and went shooting off in another direction.

“Oh-ho, you ain't that good!” McCree shouted, in passing, before rounding and returning, blinking with a dangerous glint caught in his eye. “I’m the quick!”

Reyes, finished internally screaming, continued watching from the garage in a blanched, borderline queasy silence. He bit down on his bottom lip with dissent, releasing it to speak. “Those things cost more than they do.”

Scout gave a sympathetic nod before sipping from her canteen. She offered after an audible swallow: “Quite the snafu you’re in commander, sir.”

She had seen crazier things. But, really, so had he.

“Yep.” Reyes sucked back on his teeth. While folding his arms and hanging his head, he responded with a dull vacancy, “It always is.”

That didn’t mean he had to like it.

 

* * *

 

Commander Reyes had a lecture ready once the game of chicken got boring and repetitive.

“... So, if you want to pretend like you're in some big Hollywood movie, do it on your own damn time _and_ on your own damn vehicles. These are for special ops. Only.” The commander confiscated the keys but held them air before the three of you as he explained. “ _Quid pro quo_ , kids. You’ll get these back once I get something that makes me feel confident that you understand what I’m saying. I’m not so certain that if I leave these lying around that you won’t go and wreck my ATVs. Or, less importantly, each other.”

He gave a disappointed, parental shake of his head. You noticed McCree’s throat bob in a troubled swallow. Genji was unfazed, as expected, but he had only spent a few short weeks with Reyes and it had been close to a lifetime for McCree; there was a lot history there, hundreds of _near-misses_ and _just-barelys_. It went deeper.

The commander eventually left the annex, but not before his parting words about how you had hardly been with them for a week and he expected you would need psychiatric leave which, really, wasn’t all that farfetched. 

McCree took in a savage inhale after patiently waiting for the rusty doors to swing shut after the commander, but before any sound came out, Scout decided to seal up the garage. Whatever inflamed words McCree had were halted by the squealing door, moving at a geriatric pace. You all waited it out as if you had been playing some weird charade; an unavoidable, well-drawn out awkwardness was felt in the shifting of everyone’s gazes. Genji collected his sweatered limbs, folding them over his chest and twisting his body slightly away from McCree and the hand he held in the air, pointing a single accusatory finger. Finally, the thing shut with a great clatter as if free-fell the last foot.

“The hell was all that?” McCree barked, a single beat between the echo of the garage door and his interrogation. “Wanna explain yourself?”

“Did you say something, cowboy?” Genji asked after pressing his hands against the approximate location of his ears. The top half of his face contorted to express how unnecessarily loud he thought McCree had been.

McCree repeated himself, voice arching with anger. “I said, _the hell was all that?_  Fluffy, y’act mighty fond of anything that’ll get yer face smashed in.”

Genji confidently cocked an eyebrow.

A column of blood in McCree’s jugular vein twitched. “You know I’d be happy to oblige ya.”

“You made yourself involved.” Tedium and boredom, the usual unaffected tone escaped the cyborg. “So, how is that my problem?”

“I can’t believe yer gonna make me do some real damage over this...” The hand that pointed towards Genji curled into a tight fist as the leather of his glove crackled. “This isn't about me and you know it. I had t’get involved since you could've really hurt—”

“I didn't,” Genji hissed as if it hadn’t truly been a possibility at all, “I wouldn't.”

McCree looked towards you. He croaked, visibly drained at the idea, “You alright?”

You shrugged. “I’m alright. Physically.”

“You sure?” McCree studied you. “I won’t let him do this reckless shit, not to you. Beat him cold and hollow ‘fore he gets the chance...”

“Really?” Genji taunted, his voice almost lyrical.

“If you feel like startin’ trouble, go for it.” McCree managed, becoming something adjacent to calm and therefore somehow twice as threatening than before when he was loud and spitting. He was carried forward by sheer compulsion, the need to stamp out anger that rose up in him; Genji had put something he cared about at risk—you. “But, if you put Lucky in harm’s way again, I'll be forced t’ring that metal neck of yours. Swear on my life, Fluffy, genuinely forced to.”

The nickname: _Lucky._ And the way McCree had used it was so effortless, as if that was the very name you had used all your life. Unfortunately, he could not have picked a worse time to use it as dictated by the look in Genji’s eyes.

“Lucky?” Genji stared at you. Not McCree, the one engaging him—you.

You raised an eyebrow towards him, for lack of anything else you could have done. “Fluffy.”

McCree laughed brightly, breaking himself away from previous seriousness.

Genji sighed, eyes flicking away briefly before returning to you and locking. “I had better nicknames for you when we were—”

 _That was a new twist._ You considered throwing something at him, impulsively. Instead you settled for censoring him by interrupting. “Don’t you dare.”

You knew the exact face he was making under the plates. He was suddenly interested again, interested to know that piece of information could potentially be used as leverage in the future. Something changed in McCree’s expression also.

“Look, if you two are going to end up fighting can you at least do it where I won’t be blatantly held responsible for breaking it up?” You were looking to distract more so than adress.

“Guess you're off the hook. For now." Jesse graciously caved. "Seems I ain’t lookin’ for a fight today...”

Genji looked towards you. “What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

Genji gave a directional nod of his head towards McCree. “あいつ.”

(Aitsu. = This guy.)

“What about him?”

“信じられない... 甘いなぁ~.”

(Shinjirarenai... Amai na~. = I can’t believe it... He’s being soft.)

“The word you’re looking for is _reasonable_. Try it sometime.”

“あいつに何をした?”

(Aitsu ni nani wo shita? = What did you do to him?)

“I haven’t done anything to him.”

“Should've known he’d be talkin’ about us.” McCree, narrowing his eyes as if that would help him make sense of the conversation, asked. “What’s he saying?”

“Honestly, I stopped following this conversation the moment it started. It’s not about us. Not really.”

“Us?” Genji looked visibly disappointed. “How _interesting_!”

Interesting, as you had begun to learn, never truly meant interesting.

“You really do like cowboys now!” Genji mumbled, as if he were quietly aghast at what his previous comment had predicted.

“I like them more than cyborgs, that’s for sure.”

“Oh! Wounded!” Genji, melodramatic as ever, acted as if you had struck him in the chest with your words, pressing both hands over his heart. “You must still upset with me... いや. わりいーね!”

(Iya. Warii ne! = Nevermind. My bad!)

Scout rolled back in and called out without pause, already knowing better from the previous awkwardness and unwilling to be absorbed into it again. “Oi, McCree! Commander Reyes wants to see you in his office. You can’t hear the intercom in here but he’s been paging you.”

With exasperation, McCree called back. “But he was just here!”

Scout gestured, turning her palms up, “I’m only the messenger, Jess. Can’t help you there.”

McCree made a face, clear that he was either not a fan Jess or being called to the office. Maybe a bit of both. He seemed reluctant to leave you alone with Genji but had to and made some attempt at saying goodbye. You gave him a nod in return.

And then there were two.

A spark had re-ignited in Genji’s eyes but you were both cautiously avoiding speaking, already knowing where talking would lead you until the sheer irritation of his attention made you fold.

“You’re looking at me like you want to say something.”

“Sorry.”

You stared at him as if he had sprouted another head. It was surprising to hear the word left untouched by sarcasm, considering the mouth that it came from.

“Wait, you're _sorry?_ ”

“I know you could have been hurt, so... sorry,” Genji tried. The look in his red eyes didn’t belong on his face after the conversation you had been having, only prior.

Comprehension crept in. Slowly, like the garage door.

“What about for—”

“Are _you_ sorry for what you said?” Genji broke in, accusatory with conditional reasoning. _Are you sorry for saying you were glad that I died?_

For whatever reason, giving him _that_ much was giving _too_ much. “No, I’m not.” 

Although perhaps you were. But just a smidge.

“Then, no.” His stare carbonized, absorbing the consequences of asking such a thing in the first place. “I'm not either.”

“Still content to live in denial? Blame my family for everything that happened even though you're wrong for it?”

“I'm not wrong.”

“Well, thanks for trying to be a decent person, at least. I feel all warm and fuzzy now.”

As a tremor of insight passed through him, his eyebrows went from neutral to infuriated. You had not taken his apology with the intention he expected.

“I’m being sincere.”

“If you have to tell me…” _Then you probably aren’t_ , was the rest of the sentence he wasn’t about to let you finish.

“It doesn’t kill me to apologize but whenever I do, people act just like you are right now— like I don’t mean it.” There was a very clear thread of frustration in his words.

“Consider apologizing when you mean it and not just to prove a point, then.”

“I did mean it. You’re the one who decided I didn’t.”

“Well, congrats. You should feel remorseful because that was so unbelievably stupid, even for you—”

“I know.”

He wasn’t quite shrugging you off, but he was still missing the point.

“Look, you’re entitled to feel however you want for what you’ve been through...” With effort, you paused, slowing the pace down to increase the chance of something getting through. All of his exposed skin was left with deep scars you had never known him to wear. You knew life had been unkind to him and saw clear evidence of it. So, you sympathised, coldly and sparingly.

His tension faded, if only from the knot in his brow as he listened. What you had said had not been helpful in particular, but it was more than he expected from you.

“I’m not asking you to explain yourself, just, leave me out of it.”

“Fine,” Genji said, no longer struggling.

_Wait, what?_

“Fine?”

“Yes. Fine.” He had a hard edge to his voice. Forced and pointless. “Didn’t I just say that?”

“Pardon my disbelief, you’ve only just started to be reasonable. Maybe you could stop messing with McCree too, while you’re at it.” You thought of Commander Reyes standing beside you, skeptical and doubtful that words would ever be enough. “It’s a tall order, I get that, but asking nicely is all that I have.”

Genji amazingly looked as if he were considering, apparent to you in the way that he stood and the slow tilt of his head as you spoke. It almost felt as if you were speaking to the Genji you had known, the Genji in the photograph attached to his file when he was vibrant and charming and less of the _metallic weasel_ he had become.

Your boyfriend. That Genji.

His tone was annoyed but soft and carefully enunciated after a sharp _tch_. “なんで俺がやらなくちゃいけないの?”

(Nande ore ga yaranakucha ikenai no = “Why do I have to do that?”)

Which although wasn’t him necessarily agreeing, by the very same logic, he wasn’t disagreeing either. You said nothing back, letting the question hang as if it was capable of answering itself. A minute passed and somewhere in the gap, Scout dropped a wrench. Both of you turned into the sound, making it so you were no longer directly facing each other and allowing the pause between you to carry on. The space between you was small enough that it took continuous effort to ignore each other, fortified by a quiet, uncomfortable agony.

He used to make you laugh.

Genji grew restless of standing in place, shifting his weight from one foot to the other and driving him to continually to resettle in his stance. His energy refused to be calm— but that was nothing new to you. “I want to leave this place,” he shuddered out as if he owed the silence something. It was likely a tone that was supposed to make him sound deeply unaffected, but achieved the opposite. “It’s too cold here. Boring. Lonely.”

“What was that last one?”

“Boring.”

“You’re good at making yourself scarce.”

“I know, it's a useful survival skill. But what if I really did leave?”

“You’re not seriously asking _me_ that...” It was strange the way he intensely observed your mouth move, as if he was looking for you to say something. “I don’t know... It would be quieter here. More organized, less chaotic, no more casually broken noses.”

Genji took response like a slap, something he had difficulty accepting. “Huh." He paused before dipping his head and facing you once more.

“What?”

He took a step forward, newly devoid of caution or restraint. Then another. “You know exactly what I’m asking.” He continued to edge closer until he stood immediately before you. Scanning you, you felt his eyes travel over your features without specifically landing anywhere, leaving you unable to interpret his motive and unwilling to guess. He was straining his senses, looking for something in your expression. To your irritation, he reduced his voice and spoke low and privately, “Be honest with me. Do you want me to leave?”

You were unaffected, initially. There was too much between you for the closeness not to impose its own significance. “Honestly? I want you to take two big steps back—maybe even three or four. Personal space, Genji, that’s kind of a thing.”

You heard him smirk, the equine grin you knew so well, and braced yourself for him to say something crazy. The silence had already been speaking to you, if only elliptically. “So, you don’t want me to go.” A tender, moronic pause followed by oblique satisfaction. “You want me to stay.”

“Is that what you heard me saying?”

“It’s what you meant, is it not?” He teased, playful interest threaded in his tone, grimly determined. “Don’t worry. I’ll stay. _For you._ ”

“You’re delusional.” A perfunctory comment; he already knew some variation of that.

“Thanks. You’re cute.”

You almost wished the ATVs had crashed earlier.

“Right. Well, I’m... going to walk away now.”  _Far away._

“Make sure you tell the cowboy you're a better shot than he is,” Genji cocked a single eyebrow, his voice full and smug. “Tell him Fluffy says so.”

“How do you know that? Oh, for fucksake Genji, _you saw that?_ ”

“Was I not supposed to?”

“You know, you seem really interested in what I’m doing and who I’m talking to.”

He laughed, bitterly. “You’re overthinking this, like everything else.”

Which did nothing to you but particularly intensify your want to leave until the small voice in your head had to ask, _what if he’s right?_   The thought hadn’t occurred to you, not at the most subliminal level, that everything that bothered you had an inherently simpler solution that you had been ignoring. _How can I possibly be overthinking this?_ The uncertainty he created in you was unnecessary, carving another distraction in your already overfull psyche and for that, pointlessly abusive. 

He stepped back, finally, the gesture transparently senseless then and offering to little in its lateness. He had already accomplished what he set out to do—work his way back under your skin. “I’ll see you around, _Lucky_.”

There was a strange deluge of feelings you wanted no part of.

“Not if I can help it.”

He laughed, again. Genuinely.


	10. Chapter 10

You left your office, migraine quietly thumping like an extension of your pulse as you moved. The day felt like it dragged on and out as your last encounter with Genji replayed in the back of your brain. _“You’re overthinking this.”_ Ironically, you cemented yourself to the phrase, finding no satisfying personal conclusion about it. _Overthinking what? Isn't that why I’m here on loan from Commander Morrison? Isn't that my job?_

The base was still in the odd hours, detailed by the smell of dust burning in the vents and the click of boots marching down distant corridors submerged in a climbing darkness. Agents fortunate enough to land overnight shifts shuffled about in a shared exhaustion. Meanwhile, wind whistled violently outside. The weather was turning.

As you walked by the cafeteria on your way to the dorms, you heard a cry. Able to identify the sound of the wolves and fox that occasionally roamed about outside, you decided quickly it had not been an animal but strange enough to leave you concerned. You pressed your ear against the cold metal door, catching the muffled sound of a familiar voice on the other side.  _Jesse?_

Entering before considering if it were appropriate to do so, you realized it would be too late to withdraw unnoticed as four faces turned towards you from a table in the back, illuminated only by a old electric lantern. The door shut swiftly behind you, further solidifying your intruding presence. As your eyes adjusted, you noticed in their hands and scattered between them as revealed by the unsteady, flickering brilliance—playing cards.

Thinking an explanation necessary, barging in on a poker game in the dead of night, you offered, “I thought I heard an animal howling.” 

“Howling, huh?” One of the occupants of the table gestured vaguely towards the one face you could recognize under the wide brim of a cowboy hat. "That was just him."

Even from across the room, you could tell McCree's expression brightened. Engaged, invested, but in a few blinks, the emotion was contained. He spoke coolly, not at all staggered by your timing, “Howdy.”

“I knew someone would see us,” One of the other occupants of the table said, rising from the bench as if prepared to run. “Are we in trouble now?”

"Only if your hand is better than mine,” McCree reasoned with a casual shrug of his shoulders without breaking his gaze away from you. His eyes were lacquered in the light of the electric lamp, warm and familiar like the bark of redwoods.

“Gambling?” You asked the room, arching a single displeased eyebrow to reinforce your chosen tone. “Really?”

“Oh, it ain’t at all what it looks like. We're, uh, _patrolling_...”

Another voice chimed in, “ _Supposed to be_.”

“Would’ya _rather be_?” 

The agent stiffened in their seat regardless, their body language saying all that was necessary.

McCree unfurled a pleased grin; being named temporary squad leader became less of a nuisance the more fun he had. Mostly the harmless variety, of course. “At ease, kid. No one's goin' anywhere.” He propped his elbows up along the tabletop, addressing you once again, “Commander Reyes scheduled combat testin’ bright an’ early tomorrow, didn't want 'em up all night fussed about it so we're takin' a little break while we can. It's been one _hell_ of a week—for all of us.”

Gambling was as much for McCree as it was for the recruits, a small way to help him feel normal. Or, fake normalcy, at least. Unfortunately for him, at the surface it appeared to be an irresponsible gesture.

“Fine behavior from their squad leader, leaving the base unattended while we sleep..."

McCree reached towards a handheld radio that sat dutifully next to the lantern. Holding down the PTT button, he spoke into it, deliberately and slowly: “Eastwood here. I want your status and location. I repeat, status and location. Over.” There was a second of two of crackling before a chorus of voices obediently responded, all assuring that their appointed sections had been exceptionally ordinary and uneventful. Boring even so said one voice had tried to haphazardly silence a yawn that broke up their report. McCree searched you for immediate approval after setting the radio back down. You felt badly for having thought otherwise, even briefly.

"Sorry, I thought... wait, your call-sign is  _Eastwood_?”

“After _a certain someone_ threatened to break my "Clint Eastwood neck" it just sort of... stuck.” The expression on his face eased and lifted, appearing to be authentically unconcerned all over. “And, it's fine. I know you didn't mean anythin' by it."

“So, you do this every night or?”

“Only when Reyes isn't looking.” McCree rumbled with a soft laugh, his eyelashes fluttering shut as he teased, “Find it funny how our best intel agent couldn't sniff this out... Thought you knew everythin' about everythin', _Lucky_.”

 _This fool._ You felt the corners of your lips lift into a amused smile. “Good point, _Jesse._ Maybe Commander Reyes should send me back to Overwatch.”

McCree gave you a playful warning as he placed his hand face down on the tabletop and rose to his feet. “Don’t you be goin’ anywhere fast without me. Forget our pinky promise?"

"I might recall something of the sort."

If the recruits were confused before, they were entirely lost then but watched without input as he crossed the floor to your side.

"We're partners in crime." One of his gloved hands reached towards your forearm, fingers casing around your sleeve with the intention of guiding you forward. His voice lowered, sharing private information not meant for the others with a wink. "Kitchen’s probably wonderin’ where all their sourdough is goin’ lately too.”

"What's this really all about?" He could coax you into just about anything if he was so inclined.

“You're gonna take my seat. Can’t let you walk away with your innocence now, can I?”

You sank into your spot along the bench. “So, I’m an accomplice now.”

McCree reassuringly clasped his hands at your shoulders. “Co-conspirator, I'd say.”

“Same thing," one of the more talkative agents added.

“Hush,” McCree faked a stern voice, pointing towards them without any intention of real discipline. “The commander himself used to play too. Only quit once he forgot how'ta win...”

The agents muttered in disbelief to each other; apparently unable to imagine it. You could, with little provoking, recalling how smoothly Reyes was able to pull himself into a blanched calm; the commander's poker-face was a legendary thing. McCree shut down their objections with a wave of his hand.“Are we gonna talk or are we gonna play cards? I wanna see Lucky wipe the floor with you lot.”

You picked up the hand he had left along the tabletop, angling the cards carefully so he could see them from where he stood. “You want me to do what?”

He leaned in, one hand pressed still to your shoulder as he whispered into your ear, “I was bluffin'.” A very specific shiver ran down your spine.

But, you pulled through. Hand after hand. McCree jeered in approval, dropping his hat onto your head with some ridiculous comment about how _there was a new sheriff in town_. You did your best cowboy impersonation for everyone, making the recruits choke up in laughter, only to silence them as you played your best hand yet. Impressed, McCree whistled and you turned your head just enough to pull him back into view. His roguish grin resurfaced and the glow from the lantern pressed over his features, deepening the smitten look about his face; you only really let yourself notice _then_ how unmistakably obvious it was that he looked at you differently. "You really are lucky," McCree purred, tipping the brim of his hat up your head with a pointer finger to get a clear look into your eyes.

"It's just a coincidence..."

"It's just _you_." He raked a hand though his hair as if privately embarrassed; if it had been daytime, you would have noticed how the faintest twinge of pink had crossed his face. He snorted, softly. “Oh and you're starin'. Again.”

“You think so, _Jesse_?” Rhetoric for the sake of responding. Likewise _did you know that you're stupidly handsome_ was much harder to say.

“See anything interestin’ at least?” He asked as if his drawl alone wasn’t enough without the intentional flirtatious undertone. Then, his grin sank into a smirk. Downright reckless of him.

Alternate universe you would have done something about all the sidelong glances and coquetry but it was hardly justifiable then in front of the extra pairs of eyes and so your gaze flicked just past him toward the window he had been standing before, accidentally finding a diversion. Through the barred windows, a white silver dollar moon passed happily over an indigo arctic night sky.

“Interesting? Yeah, actually, I do. It’s _snowing_.”

 

* * *

 

At McCree's discretion, the game wound down and the table shuffled out to pass the baton for the nightly patrol, leaving you and him alone. Jesse offered to walk you to your dorm and you accepted just as quickly, finding it a good enough excuse to spend a few more minutes together. The snow hadn’t let up then, incrementally falling faster and harder—not that you noticed. You had, however, caught how his smile faltered, how he had clenched his jaw.

“Hope it wasn’t too awkward leavin' you with Fluffy earlier, the _charmer_ that he is.”

“It was but I survived, somehow. What did the commander want?”

“Nothin' special,” he lulled into a thoughtful pause, distracted, thinking over how to appropriately continue as he kept his stride politely in line with your own. “Made a point of sayin’ how I'm lettin' Fluffy rile me up too easily, said he needs us to get along so we can 'work together' when the time comes...“

Jesse stopped walking, you also froze in place hearing his footsteps halt. The dark of the hallway enveloped him, running in a jagged vertical line across his body. The sudden pause and evasion of eye-contact were indication that something was wrong.

"Hey, are you alright?"

Free from the fear of his recruits seeing him fold, McCree allowed himself _everything_ he had been suppressing; the threat of the compromise had established its own difficult, introspective temper that he had resisted as much as he could. His head fell forward on his neck, gaze roving over the ground as if he was searching for something. "Not lately."

It was difficult to understand that Jesse had been pretending to be fine—and was _so damn good_ at it.

"If I can do anything to help you..."

"You've been doin' all that you can already, so it ain't like that. It's just... after Astor intercepted the call...” McCree lost confidence as he explained, fighting a brittle thread before giving up. Even in the dense monochrome of the hall, shadows obscuring everything in sight and moonlight bending over the surrounding walls, his eyes were urgent and overfull. "I can be friendly all day with that _tin can_ but that ain’t gonna help none. _They're_ gettin' closer with each passin' day and we can't stop them..."

His intensity was something you felt in your chest. You mumbled, breathing in sharply, “You're right.  _They_ could be just beyond the ridge right now and we wouldn't even know it.” You listened to the theory you were forming, surprised at how the words had snapped together as if magnetized. It wasn't helping.

McCree nodded slowly to agree with you, his own thoughts taking a symmetrical form. “Anyway you put it, they’re _too_ close and I,” he began to stutter, looking all the more lost for it, possibly ashamed that his brave face was beyond reclaiming, “I can’t go through it again... I just can’t.”

“We’ll find them, Jesse, we're doing all that we can.”

“I know.” A look akin to pain passed over him. “Now that, I know. I feel it, too."

“I won’t let what happened before, happen again. Not here and not to us.” You knew the hopeful look crossing your expression had been visibly dashed; devoting yourself to an assignment with little to show for it left even less ground for such a claim. But you insisted. “I promise.”

McCree could hardly blink. The glaze over his expression spoke of obvious apprehension but more than anything, under the fear, the want to believe you. Finally, he gave a slow nod and you continued to survey the other in a tense silence until a distant-sounding rumble tore through the hallway and shattered it. The strain between you had snapped like an elastic band and as strange as it was, you were shoved out of your previous seriousness. He and you turned towards the window, neither breathing a word in acknowledgement of the sound until you asked: “Was that... _thunder_?” Your question doubted its own possibility.

“Looks like, er, sounds like it," says Jesse. He took a long, satisfied inhale. "Rare thing, it is. Call it a _thundersnow_.”

“Sounds fake."

McCree bargained with a grin as it lazily meandered over his lips, replying with extra enthusiasm if only to mark a clear departure from his previous intensity, “I don't mean to sound like a broken record or nothin', but, would this face ever lie t'you?”

And for _whatever reason_ , you faked a closer inspection of his features, playfully leaning in towards his complicated scent of suede and woodsmoke. He remained gentle and observant, without so much as a flinch, easily tolerating your proximity. You heard his heart, or yours— _or both—_ pounding, filling your ears until another abrupt rumble from outside scared you apart. He cleared his throat cautiously as if you hadn’t just been an inch away from his lips.

“Uh, so, Fluffy said somethin' before I left...” Jesse turned his gaze to the window. The sky had flashed with lightening and filled the immediate stretch of corridor to the brim with stunning light before reducing. Shadows filled his face once again, pouring into the hollows of his cheeks and realigning a mask of moonlight over his face. “What _were_ you two exactly?”

The honest truth was too ugly. “Does it matter one way or another?”

“Not really, I suppose." Hooking a hand to his belt, McCree passed off his shifting posture as indifference. Tried to. "Not like I’ve been wonderin' about it, nothin’ of the sort...” He cocked his head back, letting a large exhale go and dissolving into a nod. “... But now that you've got me thinking about it...”

“ _Jesse_.”

“Aw, alright! So, maybe it matters.” So, maybe you matter. Or, you matter a lot.

"Our family ran in," you had to steal a few seconds to find the right term, "similar circles."

"That file said he was yakuza. That'd make you y—"

"Me? No. God, no." Although even then, it was more of a _not really._

McCree gave you a slow nod of comprehension as if you had all the same replied in another language.

"My father knew his father...  _and_ it all gets wildly complicated from there. Why do you want to know anyway?"

He stepped forward with the quiet ring of spurs; the margin of space between you had become non-existent all over. "Curious." 

"And I'm curious too, Jesse, why do you want to know?"

For one very brief moment, he became flustered and blurted out. “Because.” His breath hitched after, as if he were about to oblige you with more information but realized how juvenile a confession was and how dangerously close he had come to one.

“Because wh-”

But you were unable to ask. McCree leaned in and pressed his lips to yours, soft and hopeful at first, most of your nerve and strength since departed, leaving you helpless to his warmth and touch until he pulled away. Eyelids slowly lifting, his face adjusted with mute shock until _w_ _hat did I do_ visibly transformed to _I've been meaning to do that for a long time._ After clearing his throat, his tone transformed back into an easy drawl, “That’s why.”

But you were happily free from thought then, temporarily dazed and unresponsive, quivering where you stood. Pleasantly. You greedily went in for another kiss before he could say much else, nor would he have tried to. You felt the smile on his lips as he sensed your need, no part of him unappreciative towards your urgency. Maybe even relived. You'd only disconnected when another peal of thunder crashed overhead. Horizontal sheets of snow continued to fall as the storm-spiraled weather carried on with no sign of slowing.

 

* * *

 

Over the short hours you spent sleeping, the entire surrounding area was transformed with a buildup of snow that swallowed up the barren flatland. Fighting the drop in temperature, you found Astor bundled in a steely grey fleece blanket at his desk, only allowing his arms and head to poke out. Much like a turtle. There was a still-steaming mug on your desk, a little morning pick-me-up that was well appreciated as you sank into the cold squeaking leather and chrome chair.

"How do you say "freezing" in Afrikaans?"

" _Yskoud_."

You attempted, pressing both of your palms around the ceramic mug, "So, _dit es yskoud_. Right?"

"Nah," Astor's chair squealed, the mound of blankets he had become turned towards you, "Not _yskoud_... _Dit_...  _es Hel_." And that needed no further translation.

A few hours into your shift, Commander Reyes came down for his daily unscheduled visit but received a page from the infirmary before he had a chance to adress the room. Wicked timing. He borrowed your room’s comm link to get in contact with the medic, using the receiver to keep the message private. You had enough to keep you busy and made only the weakest attempt at eavesdropping before giving up.

The commander heaved a disappointed sigh. “Well, I've just been told that Red is going to be out of commission for a while, not that he was ever fully in...”

You pulled yourself away from the console. Reyes explained, giving you the abridged version of events. Genji was being held in the infirmary for getting clipped in the shoulder. His organic muscle and skin. The commander went on to mention that he couldn't have planned for a more well-placed injury but then explained that while it wasn't enough to take any serious action it would still take time to heal, advanced medical technologies and treatment considered.

In any case, the way he had chose to explain it made it sound reasonable to assume he had been hit on purpose. Your face twisted, taking his pause for breath to interrupt. “Did McCree shoot him or something?”

The commander’s face remained flat, your rationality wasn't far-fetched. “No, one of the training bot did it. He's in the infirmary for being sloppy, not provoking Jesse...” Then mumbled, into the commander's hand as he ran his palm over his chin, catching the confession as it tumbled out, “I wouldn’t put it past either of them, though…”

You zoned out, the voice in your head overtaking your thoughts. _Genji was bested by a bot, calibrated to fire in a very specific, easily calculated pattern?_  It didn't seem possible. Once you phased back into the conversation, the Commander had switched his tone again,“... I’ll go see him later if he doesn't go running out of there faster than the medic can treat him. Not like anyone else will.”

The commander's sentiment inspired an idea that was better off unthought. _No, I can't possibly feel bad. He's such a shit…_ You imagined Genji standing in the annex, looking lost and struggling to communicate successfully, admitting to being lonely. By then the room had went stale.

“I’ll go see him, commander.”

“Unnecessary, agent," Reyes shot back.

You felt winded without fully understanding why. Were you disappointed? Worse still, had you actually wanted to go? 

The commander seemed to notice a change over your expression. He explained, calmly and reasonably, “You won't want to be there, I have to tell him he failed the test. As of now I have no evidence that Red will be able to handle himself in a high-pressure situation without crumbling so there's no way I can clear him for missions until he proves himself."

Your concern was slow to escalate. Genji was extremely capable. He always had been. "So, what does that mean? He's grounded?"

"Something like that," the commander's voice trailed away. He pulled himself from the wall that he had been leaning against, moving closer to the office door but then stopped short. “The real reason I came down here today," as if there was ever a _real_ reason, "is because the assignment you've been working is no longer your priority. There's other cases that need attention.”

It didn’t matter if Astor had been listening attentively or not before, he had then and his fingers ceased scurrying over a laser-projected keyboard. “But sir, the attack vectors?”

“Doesn't matter.”

You didn't have to look at Astor to know the face he was making. “Sir, with all due respect, I think it matters a great deal.”

“You’ve been spending way too much time with Jesse, agent. You’re beginning to sound like him.” Reyes pushed the office door open stiffly, addressing you from over his shoulder with tone as harsh as ever. “Those are orders," his voice lost but a fraction of its edge, dropping into thinly-veiled defeat, "just do as I say, okay?”

 


	11. Chapter 11

Officially taken off your previous assignment, Commander Reyes ordered that you begin assisting in overflow tasks from Overwatch. As natural as it was for you to return to something you were so experienced with, it left you troubled to imagine what could have been waiting just beyond the horizon at the snow-covered ridge. You spent your morning glued to your office chair, playing communications tag with Commander Morrison and Captain Amari. Captain Amari frequently reminded you to stay appropriately bundled up after hearing from _Gabriel_ about how the weather had plummeted. She advised you to eat enough vitamin B and magnesium to help regulate your body's temperature, something you stored in the back of your mind for Astor's sake as he sat in the opposite corner, clutching onto a steaming mug of tea for dear life. Commander Morrison had been focused and crisp until the very end of your exchange when he blindsided you.

_"Ready to come home yet?"_

A week ago you would have jumped at the offer.

With McCree heavily preoccupied with overseeing combat testing and unable to visit, you decided there would be little harm in taking a break away from your desk to stretch your legs. You moved automatically through the corridors and as unprepared as you were to run into Reyes, you were even less prepared with what you wanted to say to Genji.

After a quick scan after you pushed the infirmary doors open, you were surprised to be faced with rows of empty cots. No trace of the wounded cyborg save for a bed at the far end that looked as if someone had recently been occupying it. The only other person to occupy the room was the medic in his trim ivory lab coat and once he heard the doors swing open, he swiftly turned his focus towards you from the tablet he had been reading. You immediately picked out the impressive looking anodized aluminum stethoscope hanging around his neck, a subdued bitter expression taking over his face. “Has the simulation produced yet another nonsensical emergency?” He managed to sound less than surprised either way you could respond, his professional interest allowing for a natural aversion towards anything that wounded agents needlessly.

Details of the infirmary washed over you bit by bit. The sterile, cold lights and the air that tasted softly astringent, like the blue tonic inside a health pack. You remembered the last time you had been there before shaking the thought out of your head. "Not that I'm aware of, I came because I heard from the commander that Genji was here...” _but he’s not._

In his response, the medic continued to study you. His formal observation neither welcoming or judgemental. “You would be correct, Genji  _was_ here until I turned my back on him.”

The room's dimensions felt different than before, transformed somehow. Another pang of _something or other_ startled you from deep within your chest. “Is he alright? Is he in stable condition?”

“Apparently so,” the medic fell into a delicate pause, pursing his lips with thought, "I suppose that Genji is well enough to 'discharge himself' however premature of a decision as that may be..."

“I work in intel. Can you page my department when he comes back?”

He tutted, “If.”

You repeated his word to yourself, finding the taste unpleasant. “He was shot in the shoulder, where else is he going to go?” Realistically, you knew the answer to that. Nowhere. Reality laughed at you both in spite of that.

The medic gave a sigh, unconvinced that he would see the cyborg again anytime soon. “You’ll be the first to know  _if he comes back_.”

You nodded firmly to display gratitude; if you wanted your way, you knew you had to be polite. You meant to turn back around then and return to your office then but knowing Genji was out of earshot, you found the moment opportunistic. “If you don't mind me asking, how bad was his injury?” Had you been able to hear yourself, you would have been dismayed with how eager you sounded.

“It was bad but it could have been worse." The medic wore experience in his posture, his rigidity a manifestation of self-restraint. "I should mention that even though Genji was less than pleased to be here under my care, he had been manageable up until his last visit... Perhaps I shouldn’t have turned my back on him when he was so clearly agitated...” The medic exhaled noisily and turned to look out the closest window, gazing upon the world hidden behind a layer of snow and ice. The irritation dropped from his tone, frozen, pre-occupied by the deposit of frost covering the glass pane. “I'm troubled to think that he must really be in _incredible_ pain right now... Genji's sedative tolerance is abnormal, I was still adjusting the dosage. I can't do anything for a patient that refuses treatment, can I?”

The source of the medic's frustration was not from dealing with Genji, it was from dealing with him while hoping for a different outcome—just like you.

You were more than empathetic. “He can be hard to deal with, I know—”

“Hard?” The medic’s eye twitched. “Try impossible. What's hard is the belief that _this_ is how he repays us after Overwatch saved his life.”

 _Oh, god._ “Can you run that by me one more time?”

The medic’s mouth became a hard, thin line. He bit the insides of his cheeks realizing he had said more than he should have. Too much to fake obliviousness. “Genji was... half-dead when Overwatch found him. Preserved just enough to flatline in Dr. Angela Ziegler's operating room. She was fortunate enough to save him, ergo biomechatronic upgrades and," he gestured, vaguely, "the tubing, interfacing, all that… A whole load of good that did." He looked back out to the silver-blue sky. "Here we are now, consistently trying to help and consistently getting shut down. It really is no wonder that he royally pissed off the wrong people at Overwatch and they sent him here to be our problem... I just love happy endings, don't you?”

“But what exactly happened to him?” You ignored every other comment. Had to. "Half-dead? How? Why?"

The medic spoke slowly, diminishing urgency, “How much do you know about the Shimada clan?”

 _Too much_ , you thought. “Enough,” you said.

“Take a guess," he said, darkly.

You were unable to say anything meaningful in return, inwardly turning his response over and over. The great bloodstained tapestry of the Shimada clan had _apparently_ included the murder of the chairman's youngest son, assassination of their own kin. _They killed the sparrow_. Guilt and stupidity made your head throb.  _And I told him I was glad that he died_.

Even as the room returned to silence, your consciousness blistered and the topic burning all possible conversation out of the air, you had no idea of knowing who had hung about the hallway... No way of knowing that Genji had only left the room momentarily in his overwhelming disgust towards his news of failure. For being isolated. Deemed faulty, incapable, useless.  _Again._

By the time you had retraced your path, Genji was gone. He refused to drag his aching body past you, eyelashes heavy with frozen tears.

 

* * *

 

McCree had come by at the end of the day bringing a late dinner in lieu of your missed lunch, leaving you struck with the blatant realization of how much you missed his drawl when he spoke and how differently he looked without his hat on. His hair was gathered up and back, pulled out of his face. As you welcomed him into the office, his tired eyes glinted and his smile turned shy.

After settling down, McCree became more of himself, growing intensely animated in a dramatic retelling of his day. Embellished tales of his squadrons heroics as you ate had you grinning on the surface and full of congratulations. Underneath, there was exhorting discomfort having not heard back from the medic, having the sinking feeling that you had unintentionally broken your promise by being removed from your previous assignment...

Eventually as light of the moon began penciling in through the half-drawn blinds, you decided you were finished for the night. Peering over to the empty desk in front of yours, you found McCree had his head cushioned by the bridge of his arms, an endearing grin pressed against his forearms in his sleep. Thinking he had more than earned his rest, you left him be.

Astor, still awake and typing vehemently, paused. He broke his rhythm only to whirl around in his seat, speaking in a scratchy whisper for all the time he had remained voiceless. “Finished for tonight?”

“There's nothing else going on here-”

He shrugged. “Except…”

 _That_ , you had said, in unison as the realization crashed over you. Astor wasn't ready to let go of your old assignment just yet. You gave him an exhausted smile, thankful but unconvinced he would make any progress. “Well, goodnight. Good luck, too.”

"I'll need it."

Just then, McCree's crinkled voice rose from behind the two of you as he mumbled in his sleep:  _“A swimmin’ pool… full o’ whiskey…? But... it’s not even my birthday…”_

You laughed to yourself but then looked apologetically towards Astor, who had been blinking owlishly. “Look, I don't want to wake him," you explained, "I'm sorry in advance if he keeps this up.”

“ _Dit nie 'n probleem nie,_ " Astor's hands found his hips, his expression kindly bordering amusement. "No problem."

_"The weed of crime... bore some... crazy fruit..."_

"He's napped here before though, yeah? First time he's done this, yeah?"

_"... Boom... goes the dynamite!"_

You apologized again, pressing a hand to your mouth to stifle a laugh.

"If he keeps talking, I’ll wheel him out into the hall.” Astor gave you a tight smile before gathering the blanket he had used earlier and placing it in your arms. He gestured with his chin towards the slumbering cowboy. “ _Yskoud_ , remember?”

You draped the fleece around McCree’s body, half-leaning forward from his seat in the chair and half-sprawled over the desktop before giving his back a gentle rub. He looked comfortable enough, which somehow made you feel better too. “Sweet dreams, _Jesse_.”

 _"... I hear you, Pumpkin..."_  

 

* * *

 

You had put what Astor said out of mind by the next morning and became momentarily confused to find an office chair in the middle of the hallway as you returned to your office. Wheeling the thing back inside and tucking it back under the neighbouring desk, you noticed a handwritten note on your console in neat, all capitals:

 

**LUCKY**

**OUT W/ PITA + COMPANY**

**SAY A PRAYER FOR US**

**HA HA HA I’M KIDDING**

**(BUT REALLY, OUT ON MISSION)**

**LUNCH IN FRIDGE, HOPE YOU FIND IT!**

**— EASTWOOD**

 

After switching the room's equipment on from standby mode and checking your recent messages. The second from the top was a terse explanation from Reyes that he was taking Jesse and one of his squadrons on an escort mission. He made sure to include that the new assignments he wanted you to work on in his absence would be sent from Overwatch, verbatim, _"do whatever they want, apparently it's more important"_  and that Commander Morrison would be in contact with you soon if hadn’t been already.

But of course he was, Jack Morrison being prompt as usual and sending his message just minutes before Reyes. Interestingly enough, the last message you received had been from a sender you couldn't recognize. Until you read it.

 

“ **To: _@watch.ow**  
**From: highnoon@watch.ow**

pita told me i was only allowed to email you if it was about the mission so i reckon if i type mission over and over while making a serious face he might believe that i am mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission mission that should be good enough but anyways glad i finally have your email cuz now you can get these extremely important updates from yours truly

ps i hope you got my note

pps the joke was in poor taste this mission is only a 3 (maybe 3.5) on the danger scale

ppps the danger scale usually goes up to 10 but i’ve seen a few 11s and 12s in my day

pppps pita is walking over here i have to go before he confiscat” 

 

The morning passed quietly without a single incident. No intrusive, authoritative commander leaning against the wall or edge of your desk. No spurs coming down the hallway like a bell on a cat’s collar. During your break, you wandered over to the mess hall to see if you would be able to find whatever it was McCree had left you and in your approach, you heard sounds of scraping, the likeness of the benches being shifted about. Your pace quickened until you were nearly sprinting, only to throw the doors open and find that everyone had been gathered in the center of the room.

Pushing through the bodies, you were surprised to find Genji at the center of it all. There was blood smeared across his knuckles. Not his own, either.

An agent teetered directly across from his position, more blood streaming down their chin from a freshly split lip. They winced, giving a smile of pure cruelty. “That all you got, _omnic_?”

Enraged to the point of perfect silence, Genji lowered in his stance and sprang forward. Swift and confident. The agent made an attempt at a counter but in less than a blink, they stumbled back into the wall of bystanders who caught him and prevented an imminent fall. One agent even went so far as to pat the aggressor's shoulders to foolishly egg him on as if he were watching an entirely different fight taking place, one where Genji had no deadly ancestral advantage.  _You got this, come on!_

You stood in a mindless pause as a chorus of taunts blended into indecipherable noise, the entire encounter an unskippable cutscene. Genji appeared to be on the fringe of another strike and the only thought that struck you with clarity was that you had to stop him. With heavy limbs, the weight telling of your apprehension to move, you attempted to remove him from the mare's nest, conscious of his bad arm. He was more aware than you had assumed, recognizing immediately that you were not part of the crowd— that it was _you_ , and allowed you to clamp a hand around his limb. You felt the cybernetic forearm tense and quake in your grip as if there had been a pounding pulse moving beneath the complex puzzle of advanced robotics. 

Under the unintelligible jeering, knowing he was focused on you, you reasoned: “You don't want to do this.” 

It took a few rattling breaths before Genji's body become pliant. As much as you assumed he resented you,  the bridge between emotion and reaction, he gave in. You led him towards the door, shoving your way through the disappointed flock and angrily shouting for the room to settle down. In your haste, a number colourful phrases were carelessly lobbed at the cyborg who had all but temporarily left his body, otherwise becoming impervious to their words. It was unspoken but understood all the same that their 'fun' had come to a clear end.

Your hand slipped down his cybernetic limb but refused to let go altogether, unassured that he wouldn't engage the crowd once again as you dragged him outside the mess hall. He allowed his body to be limp enough until he was fully removed from the room. As the door clattered shut behind you, it was then when he tore himself free from your grip. His only notable affliction was his hard breathing, deep and ragged, as if he had just finished running laps in the Pit.

There was a lot you wanted to say but little time to get anything across before he spoke.

“I’m not an omnic!" He growled and shivered. "I’m... I’m not...”

“I know you’re not.” You stared him straight in the face, unblinking, determined as if he were dazed and nothing was going to go through. “You don't have to convince me, I know.”

What little of Genji's expression not covered by his metal faceplates cycled through several emotions before sinking into a nothingness. He let himself believe what you had said. For a moment. “You see a machine when you look at me, don't you?”

"I don't."

"Yes you do."

“I don't get anything out of lying to you."

He swallowed, audibly. Whether he meant to or not, you took it as indication that he was processing what you said.

"You know, it’s obvious you’re on this crazy path of self-destruction. It's also obvious that you're not about to stop doing reckless shit because you’re bored and lonely—”

 _I’m not lonely_ , he wanted to convey but failed miserably as he simpered, defensively folding his arms over his chest.

“Listen to me for a second, will you?" Channeling your inner-Reyes, you pinched the bridge of your nose. "I'm not saying you can't be angry because, let's face it, that's not about to happen anytime soon... I'm saying don't be angry because of people like that.”

Genji rolled his head on his neck, desperately trying to release some knots of tension. “なんていってるの?”

(Nante itteru no? = What are you saying?)

You gestured to the door behind him. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but, you’re above them. Or, at least, I know you can be.”

He held onto his silence, intensely concentrated and pretending not to be.

“The last thing you need right now is another injury or another reason to be on the commander's bad side. We both know you could have two broken arms and still win a fight against anyone in the mess hall," not said to repair his ego, said because it was the truth whether you liked it or not, "but you're in recovery and you have to prove to everyone you're more than this temper you refuse to let go of."

He pushed air through his nose, indignantly. The bullet wound was crudely wrapped with gauze and without his sweater, impossible to ignore.

"You have a heart and a brain…” Your speech slowed, suddenly unsure, “... don’t you?”

He nodded.

“Right! Good! Use them.”

With the last remark, something visibly changed in him. You had only really registered the complete lack of space between you once your back was shoved up against the wall. You expected to feel some sense of danger in the body that was too strong for its own good looming over you, but in place of that your nose picked up subtleties like the wax product in his hair, a charcoal face scrub. A familiar heat coursing off his body.

It was still _just_ Genji.

The ashen black perimeter around his red eyes grew as his glare deepened. When he spoke, his voice was strangled. Throaty, resentful. “Whatever you’re doing to me— _don’t_.”

“Doing to you? Are you kidding me? I’m _trying_ to help you!”

“Stop,” he seethed out, “I don’t need anything from you! Nothing.”

Mutual awareness said otherwise, impolitely choosing the wrong moment to taunt. _We’ve been this close before under better circumstances._ “Yes, you do—”

Your insistence visibly wore on him. You felt the metal of his plates on the tip of your nose as he glared down your face.  “I said _stop_ ,” he snarled. You could hear the sharpness of his next inhale, feel the drumming of his heart in his chest. "余計なお世話だ!”

(Yokei na o sewa da!= It’s none of your business!)

He wanted to become unrecognizable with rage but you refused to let it happen. He could put up as many walls as he wanted but you knew what was behind them. You knew him, the person under all the flaring emotion. At one point, you might have even called it love.  _I'm not going to give up on you, you shit._

"Genji," you confidently locked onto his death-glare, speaking as calmly as humanly possible, "tell me what the Shimada clan did to you."


	12. Chapter 12

Genji held his voice steady to the best of his ability, purely because he knew you expected otherwise. His self-restraint eroded to practically nothing, beaten by morphine drips and a slow, daunting overhaul of his body. “What did you just say?”

Returning to a false calm, the moment between you pulsed. The nerve you had.

While minimizing the strain in your features, you slowed each word to fragments. Steady sound, no inflection or fear. “What happened after we broke up? What happened to you?”

Genji passed his unblinking stare to the wall past you, confirming that wasn’t paying attention without explicitly saying so. He wanted to make you feel as if asking was selfish or futile but even as he withdrew from your questions, he was unable to move. He could have taken off down the hall, he could have left you standing there, bewildered and alone. But he didn’t. 

Maintaining closeness kept you hopeful. “You can try to ignore me or pretend you’re not listening but I know you are. I know you better than you think I do...” As if you could ever get him out of your head completely.

Genji turned his body towards the wall of glass, as if the slight rotation would rectify his obligation to speak. You watched his head to roll forward on his neck until his forehead rested against the frost-caked windowpane. You waited patiently for all of ten seconds, which seemed charitable enough concerning the topic.

“ _Genji!_ ”

Gaze flicking upwards, his eyes tightened at the brightness of the afternoon before him. He took in the horizon, disassembled, snow-swept and hiding. He luxuriated in speechlessness for the last time, eventually breathing out a sigh from deep in his belly. To your detriment, his lilting accent returned, “Yes, Lucky?”

"Why did your family turn against you?"

"I don't know what you mean."

You lifted an eyebrow at the ease of his lie. "Really?"

 _Tch._  The lyrical and irritating tone evened out, becoming absent and flat. “Really. You should be asking me about Overwatch.” All pretense dropped in favour of bitterness, a deeply rooted hatred he struggled with in waking and having to adjust each morning. Still. Endlessly. He continued, mindlessly focused on the tundra before him, the white blanket strewn over the ground. “Go on, _Lucky_. Ask.”

“Why Overwatch?”

“They’re the ones that did this to me. I am their creation, their weapon, their property...” Genji gave a slight movement of his head, the tail of cords following the motion and swaying gently. “So forget about _my family_ ,” the latter spat out in distaste, “and ask me about your prestigious doctors and cyberneticists.”

“I already know what they did.” The echo of the medic returned to you.  _Half-dead, flatlined_. “Dr. Zeigler saved your life.”

“Ah! Yes, she did. Look at how grateful I am to be alive today." His body tensed, giving the appearance of a laugh but the suddenness of a shiver. "That’s the best part of this story, isn’t it? I should be dead. But I’m not,” he scoffed, breaking his tangent by flattening his inorganic hand against the windowpane and scrutinizing it with sudden dark interest. Had the faceplate not trapped his exhales, the glass under his nose would have fogged up. “You have answers but they aren't what you wanted them to be. You’re looking for something specific, an explanation that fits the ideas you serve... Aren’t you, Lucky?”

You gave him a hard stare in return. Your new refusal to answer was was all the confirmation he needed to continue. His inorganic hand flexed languidly against the cold glass, sunlight filtering through the spaces between each finger. “You have your ways of getting information, do you not? You always have, in fact, you're better now than you were before. I’m sure Reyes would offer my file to you, again, but failing that you could always go back to the medic...”

And there it was, evidence of his silent witness. Genji’s observation made you feel as if your compulsions needed an explanation when you had none to give. You hissed out, for lack of a better response: “Hey, just so you're aware, they have a word for people like you. It's _stalker_.”

“Think what you want,” Genji shrugged, gratified by your discomfort. The silence between you deepened which somehow only made your claim both more credible  _and_ ridiculous. “It's my turn to ask you questions now.” He pulled his forehead away from the window, standing independently from the wall’s support. A stern arch settled over his brows as he gestured bluntly to the gauze wrapping around his shoulder and a nearly-surfaced crimson. “Why did you go to the infirmary yesterday? Would seeing me in pain help you rationalize everything?”

“Believe it or not, I was concerned for you," you cringed. "Wild, right?”

After a false thoughtful look, he replied, densely sarcastic, “Hm, very well. You care about me.”

“Maybe I couldn’t believe you were taken out by a training bot.”

“Oh? Not meeting your expectations?” Indignantly, Genji took in a sharp breath as if the comment had winded him. His entire abdomen shuttered, complex plating accommodating his every fine movement. “I’m not a thing that needs pity, you know.”

“And that’s fine but, _this_ ,” you scoffed, face filling and heat prickling the back of your neck, "what I feel for you  _isn’t that_." It didn't taste like it. It didn't linger in the head or heart like pity.

“No?” Genji grew in height before circling back and facing you once again, finally, detecting something hostile and threatening in your stall for words. “If not pity, than what is it?”

 _Feelings that never went away_ , said an honest little voice in the back of your brain. _Feelings that went to sleep when you left my life and woke up when you came back._ “Nevermind. Let’s call it pity.” Even you were surprised by what you said, as if instinct had detected inherent danger in speaking about the feelings. “Forget I said anything. We never had this conversation and I never asked.”

And you didn’t wait for his expression to catch up before you began to walk away, realizing that you had lost all direction over the conversation; staying meant allowing yourself to remember, replay, search. You had expected to shed the feeling of his presence and were properly mortified to find that he had not only begun to follow you, closing the distance you had attempted to make in long, easy strides, but that he called out to you as well, “おい、待てよ!”

(Oi, mate yo! = Hey, wait!)

You stopped, in disbelief, turning back to face him to find that he had apprehensively held his human arm out towards you but was unable to make contact. Blood drying on his knuckles, his fingers scraped at the air before curling back into his palm and falling back at his side.

“What?” You asked, receiving no answer save for a new voiceless desperation in his expression which was somehow worse. Genji wanted to be angry but he gave you a pleading look that you were defenseless to, creating a pause at the center of your being. You cursed the obvious—the passage of three lonely years, the reopening of old wounds in a single glance—he would have put his fist through a mirror had he been faced with one in recognition of such obvious displays of emotion.

A whisper was more than sufficient in your proximity. “Please, tell me,” you said.

“I can't."

You turned to leave again, the only gesture that meant anything to him. Genji stopped you from exiting once more.

“Ah! Wait!” He blurted out, surrendering to impulse by taking one step forward, keeping you close, “I’ll tell you whatever you want to know only  _not now_.”

That was something.

He swore under his breath, a belated response to him registering what it was he promised. “Considering what you've said to me, you'll have to forgive me for not wanting to talk about it.” He gave a quick laugh that was short and strained. Nervous. “After all we've been through, how are we supposed to trust each other?”

“I don't know. We used to.”

 _Used to._  Pointless to think about, but that didn't stop either of you then.

“Yes,” he confirmed, voice deepening, “but time moves on and I can only rely on myself.”

"Try being less of a dick to everyone. A revolutionary suggestion, I know, but that might help.”

“いいアドバイスをありがとう.”

(Ī adobaisu o arigatō. = Thanks for the tip.)

“I don’t know why I expected you to take that seriously.” You earned a non-response, the slight tilt of his hip as he shifted his weight about his stance. “You could make friends here if you wanted to. You were charismatic once upon a time.” People gravitated to the Genji you knew, the Genji best envisioned with the reflection of arcade machine screens in his eyes and perpetual smirking lips behind glasses of sake. _I miss him_ , said a quiet voice in the back of your mind that only went onto create the briefest flicker of pain.

“Everyone here would blast an omnic to pieces before being friends with one.”

“Maybe, but you’re not—”

“I’m not, no. You’re the only person who seems to understand that.”

 _So?_ You wanted to ask but said nothing, thinking your voice would break his concentration.

Genji breathed out, slowly, before softly mumbling, “Thank you.” It was as if some puppet master had forced his jaw open and pulled the words out.

“You’re... welcome?”

You could handle his distant, pissed-off glares. His gratitude, even as strained as it was? Not so much. Entirely unsure of what to say, you pressed your shoulder to his side in what was supposed to be a supportive gesture only to feel a strange jolt move through your body, like static, forcing you apart. You pulled away from him, frantically, unable to get your mouth to move before doubling back to your office, leaving him stranded in the hallway. He didn’t attempt to stop you.

  

* * *

 

“ **To: highnoon@watch.ow** **  
** **From: _@watch.ow**

Thanks for lunch (that I am eating for dinner because something came up...) Come back in one piece or I’ll have to reevaluate your “danger scale” rating.

PS — You called me 'Pumpkin' in your sleep yesterday and I’m still not entirely over it.”

 

“ **To: _@watch.ow** **  
** **From: highnoon@watch.ow**

just because you said that im coming back in 2 pieces

ps never have i ever”

 

“ **To: highnoon@watch.ow** **  
** **From: _@watch.ow**

Don't.

PS — You also said something about a swimming pool full of whiskey...?”

 

“ **To: highnoon@watch.ow, _@watch.ow** **  
** **From: g.reyes@watch.ow**

This messaging system is intended for mission related information only, not your love letters. Thanks in advance.”

 

“ **To: g.reyes@watch.ow** **  
** **From: highnoon@watch.ow**

roses are red n violets are blue  
pardon me but... it dont involve you!!!”

 

“ **Title:** **_Formal Warning_**

 **To: highnoon@watch.ow** **  
** **From: g.reyes@watch.ow**

I’m 2 seconds away from breaking your communicator.”

 

* * *

 

The next morning, symptoms of the lack of progress towards Astor's private hunt were apparent. It had all gotten to you too but there had been enough going around in the background that it hadn't completely absorbed all of your waking moments. He sat hunched over his desk, curled into the console. Distracted. 

There was a page that broke the electronic hum of the room from Commander Reyes. He wanted to see you in his office, clear to you that the squadron had returned and everyone was home safe. It wasn’t until you flicked the screen of your console off and rose to your feet did Astor swing around in his chair. “Did we just get a page or am I imagining things?” He slid a headphone off his ear, just enough to listen to you reply. Being massively sleep-deprived as he was had taken to him like a form of delirium. You wondered if he had bothered leaving his chair at all in the past 24 hours.

You spoke gently as if a loud voice would crack him like an eggshell against a countertop, “It was for me, don’t worry about it.”

“Huh...” He gave you a blank look of exactly three slow blinks before repositioning the headphones. You offered a weak smile of encouragement but were doubtful that he caught it before swinging back towards his desk.

Once you reached the commander’s office, you found the door was partially closed. You waited a beat before entering, catching McCree talking in a low voice to Reyes but unable to pick out words or phrases. He had been using an uncharacteristically serious tone and hardly broke out of it once he saw you, feeling a wave of air from the door being pushed open at his back, shaking his cape.

“Can’t say how happy I am t’see you. I'll have t'give you a recap later...” McCree had said as you neared him, attempting his usual grin but failing. You targeted anxiousness, worry. Falling into his line of sight, you stood close enough at his side to catch the scent of wood smoke that hung onto his clothes. The snuffed candles, matchsticks, explosive powder. His drawl was less the carefree, honeyed sound you were familiar with and more of a growl. “For now, tell the commander he’s out of his mind, will you?”

“Out of his mind?”

“Out of my mind,” said Reyes from behind his desk as he echoed everyone’s words in confirmation. It was not said as if he had particularly agreed, but spoken with a kind of deadened levity towards the comment itself. An almost-amusement.

“Um...” You began, unsure of the cues about the room. McCree, at your side, was irritated. Clearly. You felt the stiffness of his back, the grit of his jaw. Reyes, however, blinked lethargically as if he had only just woken up from a nap. “Why exactly are you _out of your mind_ , sir?”

“I sent you some information.”

You had precisely 1 message from Commander Morrison and 17 others—a dose of rhymes and nonsense from a Mr. Highnoon@watch.ow. “I’ve received a number of messages today but I don’t recall seeing one from you in the mix, commander.”

McCree shifted his weight from where he stood, lowering his gaze as he cleared his throat and managing to incriminate himself without saying a word. Commander Reyes noticed, of course, but said nothing of it, shuffling the blank look off his face. Something a little more serious took it’s place. “Things around here will... look different. Soon.”

“I don’t think I’m following…”

“He’s bringin’ in more bodies, Jack Morrison's sendin' more recruits...” McCree impatiently murmured, his voice becoming louder as he turned from you to Reyes. “Ain’t that right, boss?”

“And?” Sniff of derision, collecting his hands along the desktop. “What are you complaining about, kid? It's a good thing, we've talked about this.”

“But—”

“But nothing," the commander clipped out, “I don’t want to hear about it.”

The threat of survival forced McCree to keep trying: “I'm only sayin' that—”

“You know better than anyone how I run this show.”

“Commander—” McCree was practically begging, his voice overflowing with urgency. A child begging their parent to check under the bed for monsters. Standing next to him without being able to physically reassure him became difficult, you pressed a hand to his back just as you had when he was talking in his sleep for some sense of comfort. You felt him lean back into your touch, confirming your presence but no less wound up for it.

“ _¡Cálmate!_ ”

McCree’s lips pulled into a fine line at the sudden change in the commander's tone; the words echoed in the din of the office. Speaking about ghosts summoned them; it was understood that the transferred agents were replacements for those that perished. The argument the cowboy was trying to make was that the base was not secure enough to fill, that a threat still lurked. A chill ran through your system, calculating the fear as McCree’s anger tested a frail leash. His arms remained locked at his sides but quivered at the injustice of voicelessness.

Reyes insisted, “Make my life easier, just accept it.” A long, heavy stillness followed. Commander Reyes leaned back in his chair, the flag of Blackwatch only adding to his presence as he pulled the tips of his fingers in his prayer-folded hands to his lips. “Think about it like this: we haven’t gotten to the bottom of it yet but what if that’s because there isn’t _really_ a bottom?”

“What’dya mean?” McCree asked, reluctantly, unsure if he would be permitted to finish. “No bottom? Why’ve you got to get into these weird analogies? Of course there is an' we know that!”

“We don't know that. Intelligence has been on this assignment for well over a week... Now, realistically, keeping that in mind, you can either accept that my agents are incompetent, unable to do their jobs…” The new angle was personally offensive. Your mouth dropped open, exposing the slightest of teeth. _McScuse me, Pita?_ “... or you recognize they’re fully capable and we’re not in any real danger.”

No one could say otherwise. You slanted an eyebrow at Reyes who confidently held your stare as if he hadn’t just said something incredibly patronizing. Reluctantly, McCree nodded his head in agreement, unable to look at you.

“The threat was bullshit, Jesse, it was all talk and no action. Don’t you get it?” Reyes continued to persuade. “Don’t you think that if we had something to worry about that we would know about it by now? Do you think they would keep stalling if they had the upper hand?” His reasoning was the most polite way of challenging faith in your abilities; there was a shallow little plunge in your heart, it was a strategic move but a hurtful one.

“Guess yer right...” McCree shrugged without managing to sound the least bit convinced. He rolled his shoulders, releasing the tender curl of his lip, avoiding the distressed stare you pressed into his profile.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” the commander said, calm and precise, accompanied by his best poker face.


	13. Chapter 13

Ahead of you, McCree halted suddenly. He stood stiffly, outwardly silent, a hunter straining for the sounds of his prey. From down all sides of the windowless corridor came inarticulate noise of conversation and purposeful marching, soles of boots grinding over the worn floors. Distantly still, a remote and steady murmur welled up into McCree’s attention. White noise, dead souls babbling like a brook. You nearly tripped into him at his abruptness and placed a hand out to steady yourself, clutching onto him for support. He tilted his chin over his shoulder to peer down at you and you were caught off guard by the quietly profound look that captured his features. His gaze traveled up your arm and settled on your face, conveying feelings he had not been able to express inside the commander’s office. There was always something in his stare that you found comforting, something that made everything feel manageable—even if it wasn’t.

“What’s on your mind?"

McCree worked through the silence he fell into, "Proving a point or not, what Pita said was a disservice and I for one can’t stand the thought of you walkin' away thinkin’ I agree or feel some type of way that I don't." He turned his body square towards yours, spurs ringing brightly in the small movement. Total eye-contact brought a new level of conviction to his words. "Ever since day one, you’ve worked yourself into the ground. If y'ask me, there's no question where you belong. You've got me convinced and anyone even remotely payin’ attention would agree."

It felt good to hear McCree express his gratitude after the hit your ego had taken. You'd been thrown under the metaphorical bus before— but not lately. And never professionally. The almost-but-not-quite character assassination had burned a precise little hole in your impression of Reyes, one you hoped would mend before the next time you had to be in the same room as him, often as it was.

"Y'got that?” McCree asked, prodding your speechlessness, "Blackwatch needs you. I n—" He caught himself before he said it, biting down on his lip to forcibly halt where momentum of speech naturally wanted to take him. Fortunately, unfortunately, you caught it all the same.

You gave him a slow blink of what you sincerely hoped was a look of comprehension, not embarrassment.

McCree's head swiveled away, suddenly unprepared to meet your gaze. He took his time before speaking, “Suppose it's needless t'say but I don’t like it. Not one bit.”

There was conceivably a lot to be unhappy about. “Which part of it?”

“Oh, I dunno, I guess I don’t quite like the part where Reyes opened his mouth.”

“I didn’t especially enjoy all that, either.”

"Can't help but get the impression the commander’s got his guard up, way up," McCree’s voice thinned, "If I'm right about that, which I'll bet money I am, there ain’t nothin’ we can do to change that… Don't recall him ever shuttin' me down so much and we have a long history.” Intentional or not, a neat little pause overtook him. It primed you for the idea that McCree was about to say something you weren’t ready to hear. Eventually, he sighed out: "He knows somethin'.”

You were numb to the idea, at first. "What makes you say that?"

"Because disaster is near, that reason enough?" He tapped at his chest with the flat of his gloved palm, directly over his heart. "There's an uncomfortable stillness around here like it's the last calm moment on earth. And the worst part? Can't shake it. I've been tryin' to but it gets stronger and grows  _and that's it_."

You stared at him, half-startled, as gravity worked through you.

“I know Reyes better than he thinks I do and... I get how it all must sound, Lucky,” he said with a tremble, “really, I do...”

“You get how it sounds saying Commander Reyes would sabotage his own operation?” Although it was something you had privately considered, McCree's voice made it real. Worse. “He's kept us in the dark on purpose?"

"You heard him back there, this is his show. Best believe he’s runnin’ it exactly how he sees fit, includin’ keepin’ us in the dark _if he so chooses_.”

"He wouldn’t let that happen,” confidence failing, your voice broke, “would he?”

"He'll do anythin' t'keep a sense of peace and calm, thinkin' he’s doin’ us all a favour. We’ll stay nice and rational if we don’t know better, but...” McCree’s voice darkened, “didn't work the last time, won't work this time either.”

“You’re sure about this?”

In the moment, you relied on his judgements entirely; McCree’s interpretation of Commander Reyes was information you couldn’t afford to ignore. You carefully searched his face for something, some impression that would dissuade you, like a hint of confusion or reluctance but found nothing save a pang of guilt for having doubted him in the first place. McCree remained intact, jarringly sincere and flushed with heat, enduring your observation. He needed you to believe him and nodded, vigorously, catching your sliding focus.

“Somethin’ is goin’ on, we’re going to find out what. Are you with me on this or not?”

Your reply seemed obvious. “I’m with you.”

His eyes, russet and copper-flecked, filled with gratitude. “Good, good... Knew I could count on you, _Pumpkin_.”

You would have groaned or made fun of him if it wasn’t soendearing.

“Don’t go tellin’ a soul about what we’re up to. Not just yet.”

You surprised yourself with a laugh, faced with the understanding that reality would continue to eclipse your conversations. “We like to joke about being partners in crime but _look at us_.”

“I said in the beginning that I'd be a bad influence so  _maybe_ y’shoulda done somethin’ about it before you started t'like me—”

You did a stupid, selfish thing then. Without consideration for the time or place, standing in a well-traveled corridor in the middle of the day, you kissed him. McCree also did a stupid, selfish thing and made no attempt to stop you. For your patience, his touch was a reward hard won and you savoured the firmness of his grip as his hands pulled you closer. You were briefly overwhelmed by entitlement, a yearning for some sense of security, lost in a daze.  _We earned this._ Reckless as it was, you weren't about to stop.

The flood of nerves made his breathing shallow and shaky, you liked what it did to his voice. “Missed me?”

Somewhere in the last few moments, he had backed you into the painted brick wall. Your hands, unsure at first, slid up the front of his chest, meeting the rough, solid tactical armor and the pounding heart underneath. “Enough that I _almost_ don’t care if someone sees.”

“Oh, that’s plenty,” McCree decided as tip of his nose brushed against yours. “Suppose I missed you _at least_ that much too or else this don’t make much sense.”

“Maybe we bring out the worst in each other.”

“Aw well, can’t rule that out either,” he said before kissing you again, voice reducing to a growl against your lips, “Good thing I don’t care much either way.”

A group of agents suddenly rounding the corner pulled you apart. He took one great step back and you braced yourself against the brick, hoping that you were quick enough fake respectful distance from one another other until they passed the stretch you occupied, blessedly without comment. You shared a collaborative look, managing eye-contact. Somehow.

“What were we saying?” You pressed a hand to your forehead, warmth bristled under your skin. “I can’t remember.”

McCree looked at you, pleased and grinning innocently, as if he hadn’t just had you against a wall. “Were we even talkin’ before all that?” You feigned the most unimpressed look you could. He caved. “We’re takin’ special consideration towards what _a certain someone_ is up to and we’re gonna do it real sneaky-like so he won’t suspect a thing.”

“Technically, it’s my job to be observant.”

“And, unofficially, it’s _my_ job to keep an eye on Reyes. You sure you’re up to it?”

“Absolutely.”

“Positive, now?”

“I’m positive that we’re _totally out of our minds_ but also that, yes, we’re doing this. Partners in crime and all that.”

 

* * *

 

The following day was chaotic, you could feel how everything had changed overnight. The first wave of recruits had arrived and The Pit was busier because of it. There was more sweat and focus. More heat, too. You ran laps while trying to pick out who was new, searching for faces twisted in indecision or wonder at their surroundings. Who looked overly enthusiastic, eager to make a good impression; who looked stern and sullen; who looked coldest. You took it all in. Useless data, there in abundance, everywhere your eyes landed.

Taking a cooldown lap, you noticed Jesse unloading a barbell. Sweat beaded over his crown, ran down his neck, evidence of his session's intensity. Unaware of your presence, he rose to his full height and examined a taut arm, grimacing at the flaring veins. Only as you advanced to speak with him for your usual vibrant, mildly flirtatious conversations had you noticed Genji. Or rather, you noticed how everyone appeared to notice him.

Genji, restricted to the lightest forms of activity due to his still-healing injury, sat on a mat facing the wall of mirrors. All overly self-conscious air, hooded sweater zipped up to his chin for some scrap of privacy. You almost wanted to say something to discourage the whispering until you saw that his face was bare—no metal plate or silicone training mask in the way—and your heart began to race as the dignified features of Shimada family descent began to register. Feature by feature, under a blast of scars, like the kind that covered the rest of his body, skin left uncovered by carbon fibre and other advanced materials. Through the glass, his sharp, resentful gaze punctured your curiosity. The look was exceedingly harsh only because there was a blankness over him that you were still adjusting to—a blankness you were happy to be excused from as McCree’s voice wound around you and gave you an excuse to look away. 

The cowboy crossed the floor and slipped up to your side while you were preoccupied. He brushed his arm against yours, creating a subtle exchange of heat. The closeness felt intentional and you could appreciate that. “So, I’ve been thinkin’ since we last talked,” he began.

“Novel,” you joked, still a touch breathless.

“G’mornin' to you too,” McCree murmured in response, playful with a sense of muted urgency, “In all seriousness, though..."

"Sorry, let's go from the top. You've been thinking?"

"Thinkin' over what we talked about yesterday and...”

“And?”

“And I’m leanin’ towards the conclusion that it’s a decent-sized undertaking,” he pulled a hand through his hair, fixing the strands that had fallen in his face, "so we might need help." You began to protest but he gestured for you to pause. “ _Wait wait wait_ , hear me out first. You trust Astor, right? With everythin' you've told me about him, I think it's a good idea. We don’t need him to do anythin’ brave ‘cept for lettin’ us know if the commander does somethin’ suspicious.”

 _I think Astor already has his hands full_ , is what you should have said. But you couldn’t, not without admitting more than you wanted to. “I can't promise anything but I’ll ask.”

McCree looked relieved, which only made you feel worse. "I owe you one. Well, one and a couple."

Feeling the sudden weight of a stare press into you, you checked the mirrored wall and confirmed red eyes looking at you. The natural response was to look away in an indiscriminate direction to deny that you had noticed but you challenged his focus until an idea came to mind, one you impulsively voiced. “We could ask Genji.”

“Fluffy? Help us? You feelin' okay?”

“Would the commander ever suspect that collaboration?" A flicker of hopefulness hit you like static electricity and you continued to look into the cyborg's eyes as you reasoned with the cowboy. "Worst case scenario, Pita sees us working together. Maybe he'll think we're trying to be friendly, maybe he'll think we're trying to follow his orders.”

McCree opened his mouth to protest but nothing came out. He pressed a hand to his chin, scratching pensively. “As much as I want to hate it, I guess Fluffy might be useful for somethin’ after all. Consider me skeptical but interested. Fair?”

“Fair,” you agreed before breaking into a triumphant grin, winning the staring contest as Genji shut his eyes.

 

* * *

 

Astor was none too pleased that Commander Reyes brought a new body to your department. Although he introduced himself diplomatically, he brooded at his desk thereafter, stoop transformed into something rigid and bothered, shoulders locked like a hostile Rottweiler. You knew Astor well enough that the offence was plain, but Lea politely did not notice.

“Show her around, make her feel at home.” Commander Reyes addressed you with a shrug, unable to take his eyes fully away from his communicator. “Jesse is being relentless this morning. I can hardly think with all that's going on, let alone summon extra patience... I wonder if our new medic will give me tranquilizers so I can get some work done.”

The commander left without clarifying if he was serious or not; you were inclined to believe some kernel of truth but smiled privately to yourself, recognizing the plan in motion. 

For Astor’s sake, you saved conversation with the new officer for the hallway.

“He doesn’t talk much, does he?” Walking inside your pace, Lea was first to speak. “With the glasses.”

Astor's behavioural silence was one of the only consistencies of Blackwatch you could name. You explained his appreciation for a quiet room, sliding your hands into the pockets of your sweater. The hallways had thinned out and a chill had seeped in.

Lea appeared to get the point, her eyes traveling down the hallway, taking in the unfamiliar territory. “What are the shifts like here?”

"I haven't been here long enough to give you a good answer. So far, our assignments have been sparse. Easy enough. I stay late sometimes but Astor volunteers more often than not.”

She seemed to have no further comment until your peripherals confirmed a thoughtful smile. “So, not much is going on here then, huh?” She dissolved into awkward, albeit friendly laughter. You gave a sympathetic grin in return.  _You don’t even know the half of it_ , your inner voice groaned.

“Not as of lately...” Not yet.

Lea was quiet again, piecing information together, deciding what to make of everyone and everything. In an attempt to be conversational, you asked more questions, pointless snipits of small-talk, something to fill the time as you walked. “So, where were you stationed before this? ”

“The west coast.” 

You knew which watchpoint she meant and you knew it well enough because thatwas _your post_ before you were transferred. An instant red flag. You had never seen her in your department before, much less heard her name. 

Lea, catching an obvious distressed look over your face, was quick to expand, "I wasn't intelligence there, actually. I specialize in a totally different department... all until this morning."

"Interesting," you supplied, half-heartedly. By interesting, you meant, _why the hell did Jack send you then?_ You drifted into and out of her long-winded explanation, preoccupied with an internal monologue of questions and curses. 

The last thing she said before she fell silent made your insides knot-up: "The commander said he wanted me to work with the best, I assume that's you.”


	14. Chapter 14

Astor leapt up, every bit a dog expecting their human to come home in your return to the office. "Where is she?" He looked towards the door, assuming someone else would walk in.

"Quartermaster. Why, what's up?"

“Her name is Oleander,” Astor continued with a strange energy, breaking into syllables and sounds, “ _O-le-ander_... as in _Nerium oleander_... as in a poisonous plant. With me so far?”

"Are you planning on going somewhere with this?”

Summoning patience, he folded both hands and exhaled in a hiss. “We find substance in the insubstantial, that's what we're here for, _ja_? Connecting A to B and C. All that. Well, I'm saying to you now that I'm seeing things and I can't ignore the connections they're making.” He broke his tempo to give you an odd pleading look. “Our new agent? Oleander? She shouldn't be here...”

You took a prolonged sip from your thermos, needing to stall as you formulated a response. Astor was unrecognizable for the first time since you had met; you wondered if his budding paranoia was how sleeplessness would take a toll on him, fearing further disintegration of reason. “Why don't you take a couple hours and rest up?"

"I'm not tired," he said, firmly.

"Then what’s your deal?”

“My _deal_?" He scoffed, insulted, "My deal is that  _Oleander_ is stunningly familiar... I recognize  _her voice._ ”

“What? How?"

“I heard it when I intercepted _that_ call. Think I would let go of something like that?” 

Besides immediately wanting to argue that Lea had an unremarkable speaking voice, no hint of an accent or any other distinguishing feature, you knew it wasn't possible. “I just spoke with her in the hallway, Astor.She was transferred from the coast, nowhere near Dawson City where the call was made. You couldn’t have heard her voice, maybe it was someone that sounds like her _but it wasn't her_.”

“I didn’t realize you were such good friends already.”

You didn’t like what Astor’s tone implied. “It's not me that's against you, it's geography, it's—”

“Don’t try to explain! Explaining makes it worse because you're only going to spell out why you think I’m overreacting and _eish..._  I didn’t think I would have to persuade you, I thought you would just believe me.”

“I know you’re worried. We’re all worried, we have every right to be...”

“Do we? Apparently, we're fine! Yep, completely safe!  _Alles is goed!_ ” He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, continuing to stare into your face as his expression hardened. 

“That's not what I'm saying!" _Now or never._ "Listen, it’s not her we should be worried about, it’s—”  _Commander Reyes. It's everything he’s not telling us._

Astor interrupted you before you had a chance: “Save it.” It wasn’t a harsh betrayal but a poorly-timed one. You stood in place as he turned his back to you, holding your thermos as steam crawled up your neck and chin. “Forget I said anything,” he sighed, adding with finality, "I'll handle it myself."

You wondered and hoped that Jesse was having better luck than you.

Sometime after all that as you were working half-heartedly at your console, Lea— _Oleander, toxic plant_ — came back wearing new Blackwatch threads, a shiny red apple in hand. She gave you a flimsy smile after taking a noisy bite, pressing a hand over her lips. Astor sharply rolled his head from side to side from in his seat, remarkably saying nothing. Lea froze before taking another bite, looking to you sheepishly for permission. You gave her a slow disapproving shake.

She finished it in the hallway.

 

* * *

 

The commander rolled into the office, McCree was at his side. The plan was in motion and it instilled some sense of comfort you were happy to find after the earlier tension. Jesse gave you a wink and you tried for the life of you not to act as if he had for the face Reyes was making.

“He’s having separation anxiety like it’s the first day of kindergarten.” The commander turned his head over his shoulder to look at the cowboy, who had began casually leaning against the wall by the door with his hands rested at his belt buckle. “Are you acting like a  _duckling_  on purpose?”

“Hold up,” McCree tilted his hat back, angling his gaze upwards to contest the stare he had earned from Reyes who halted, holding his palms out in mid-gesture while silently bracing himself. “If I’m a _duckling_ , you'd be a  _duck_.”

Reyes said nothing, serving a fatally slow-motion hike of his brow. McCree had perfected a look that denied he was trying to be a _little shit_ ; it had taken years but he had it down pat.

“ _Quack._ ”

You not-so-silently choked, choosing the wrong moment to take a sip from your thermos. No one was prepared for _that_ , especially not the commander.

“Kid,” Reyes pinched the bridge of his nose, “I’m begging you—”

Although the commander was unable to finish as Astor turned in his chair and waved him over. Reyes, thankful to have an out, walked away without question. Your eyes followed, catching Astor gesturing soundlessly towards the monitor. Reyes folded forward to speak privately. You squinted, trying to see around their shoulders but because the commander was built _quite literally_ like a bear, you were afforded no glance at the screen and what they might have been discussing.

After pushing away from the wall, McCree tried not so subtly tried to do the same as you but soon gave up and approached your desk. “Get a chance t'speak with him?" Jesse's voice in your ear made your skin prickle. The softness, the low private tone.

"I did. Tried to at least."

"Ah, well, there's always another way," Jesse's voice trailed off, curling into something almost smug, "Always."

You gave a nod, turning in your chair to face his tousled hair and eyes of steady warmth. "Anything to report?"

“Nothin’ much. Met our new 'medic' though… who isn’t really a medic. Not technically. I’ll advise you t’avoid the infirmary, if at all possible.”

“Noted.”

Lea had stopped typing, peering at McCree from around her monitor. You decided an introduction would be appropriate. 

“Speaking of new, Jesse, _Oleander—_ ”

“Lea,” she corrected, holding a hand out over the desk, her expression mimicking most in the year 2068 while facing an authentic cowboy. “Howdy.”

“Pleasure to meet you, ma’am,” Jesse nodded with all of his natural charm, sliding an ungloved hand to return the gesture, “McCree.”

Lea’s eyes lingered on his forearm, fixed on ink that formed the deadlocked skull. She let go of his hand and sank back down to her seat, smile unfaltering.  “Likewise.”

Reyes, finished with whatever Astor had needed him for, began moving towards the door. He called for Lea to follow him down to his office, presumably for another round of paperwork or other exciting things of that nature, giving you flashbacks of your first days when everything was fresh and unusual. Reyes took pause, realizing Jesse wasn’t on his heel. “Kid?”

“I’ll be there in a minute,” McCree assured him.

“Suit yourself,” Reyes shrugged, closing the door behind him as he went, but not without what you could positively identify as a little  _quack_.

McCree, ambivalent to the commander's exit, murmured, “I'm thinkin' we go out for lunch today.”

“What are you up to?”

"Well, like I said: _there's always another way_ , Lucky. You'll see what I mean.”

 

* * *

  

You met Jesse few minutes before noon in the trafficked hallway outside the mess hall. He was determined yet to keep everything secret and not explain why it was so important but you had respect for his format. _Reveal nothing, prepare for anything_. With a splayed hand, he nudged the metal door open to peer inside. Within a few seconds of searching, he pulled back, looking you square in the face. "Well, damn,” he breathed, "he's _actually_ there."

" _Jesse..._ "

McCree pushed the door open with his side and leaned against it, casually, signalling for you to walk through. You knew immediately who he had meant, even if he didn't verbally confirm it and you approached the table, reluctantly, linoleum burning under your feet.

“Yo,” Genji said, propped forward by his elbows and leaning into the table.

Your glance slid from the cyborg to the cowboy, deadpan. “Why?”

“You might call it a truce,” McCree offered, kindly, herding you forward still.

"We'll see what we'll call it," you returned.

“The more I thought about what y'said, the more it made sense. Maybe he isn't useless."

“I can hear you, you know,” Genji’s voice rose from the table once more, already pinched with boredom, "As always, gripping and enlightening commentary. Thank you for inviting me."

McCree, not quite ready to acknowledge Genji, ignored the comment. He pressed a gloved hand to your shoulder blade, urging you to listen, “Lucky, we have a chance t'get it all out on the table and  _aw don’t look at me like that,_  the pun wasn't intentional...”

“I can be reasonable, I’ve been behaving lately.” Genji injected, apparently dissatisfied that there he was and no one was engaging him in conversation, "I'm practically a new man."

"You’re hurt, not changed," McCree said as he took a seat on the bench, finally including the cyborg in the conversation, "You'd be singin' a different song if it weren't for that injury and we all know it.”

Genji lifted an eyebrow, McCree's assumption stirring too many conflicting emotions. “I need  _something_ to save me from this boredom during rehabilitation...  _Jess_.”

McCree did an exorcist-like head turn at the nickname, looking over his shoulder towards you. You decided then was a good moment to sit down. “Nearly forgot where he came from. Yakuza." Jesse growled out. "Trouble runs in those veins.”

Genji sharply tilted his head at the sound of the maimed word. "Ah, I wonder what a gang member such as yourself has to say about my _yakuza_ family...”

“Former member. You'll have t'do better than that if you're trying to get me mad.”

The cyborg incorrectly registered a challenge and clasped his hands together, professionally. “Deadlock Rebels. Weapon trafficking, mostly. Your people, your family...” Genji, clearly satisfied with himself, blinked languidly. "Is that better? Should I continue?"

You flinched, uncomfortable with the information and with the envisioned outcome of the meeting. "So, this is going exactly as I imagined it would."

“Who gave you permission to look at my file?” McCree gritted out, overlapping what you had said.

“Permission?” Genji faked a look of confusion before breaking into a haughty laugh. “バカ言いうな.”

(Baka iiu na. = Don't be stupid.)

McCree curled his lip. "I swear if those were fightin' words..."

You supplied a translation, although incorrect, sliding a hand over your face: “He’s apologizing for invading your privacy, he's very sorry and won't do it again.”

Genji's eyes gleamed. “I promise that's incorrect.”

"Suppose you better talk t'him before I'm tempted t'reach over the table and pull those cords out of his head one by one."

Genji looked delighted at the prospect of a fight so you rushed into it, concerned what would happen if you waited a moment longer, “ _Genji—_ "

"Yes,  _Lucky_?"

Another misuse. McCree inhaled noisily but you continued to speak sharply with all the authority you could muster, "I’m going to get right to the point—"

"But I'm just beginning to have fun."

"Shut up for five seconds and let me speak, _okay?_ " And he did. Something both impressed and maybe even scared McCree. "We need your help."

Genji's gaze shuttered from you to McCree then back, becoming tilted with another bout of laughter. You knew he hadn't found it as funny as he pretended to but that was all a part of his act.

“I’m not kidding,” you urged.

“So, you want something from me. My help? Fair enough. Answer me one thing then: do you trust me, _Lucky_?”

McCree did his very best not to inject his own personal opinions on the near-constant abuse of your nickname; you knew he was trying very, very hard to stay quiet. 

"Not yet.”

“So, why should I trust you? Why would I want to help you in the first place? Why am I even sitting here?” He raised his eyebrow as he spoke. You knew by the angle that he was looking for a particular answer from you.

“Because underneath you're still a good person—"

"No," he shut you down, quickly. All the same, he could have been saying _try again_.

You recalculated, looking for a new hook. Something less emotional, an appeal to his struggle with boredom. "We know something Commander Reyes told us specifically not to tell anyone.”

 _That was it._ Genji pulled back from the table with coy tilt of his chin. “Something Reyes doesn’t want _me_ knowing…”

“Help us and I'll tell you.”

McCree was silent still, leaving you to do the bargaining, restrained in his awe as if watching a firework explode or the final moments of a lion chasing a gazelle.

“What exactly do you want or need from me?” Genji asked, beginning to lose his indifferent air. You were inclined to believe he was forgetting that he was supposed to be unreasonable. 

“We just need your cooperation. You know what that means."

“Yes and naturally, you know what that'll take...”

"I just need you to make this promise."

"I don't think I want to."

You didn’t have the time to play the game he was setting up. “You will."

"You really think so?"

"I really do. The base is compromised.”

You saw the conceited smirk vanish from Genji's eyes, falling out of the red and leaving a blankness. McCree pulled the brim of his hat over his eyes, looking at the surface of the table as if he could see through it to the floor. Everyone froze for a few moments. Eventually, Genji promised.

"I can't believe my ears." McCree murmured, as if in a daze, afraid to speak any louder and shatter what you had achieved.

Genji hadn’t dared lifting his absent stare off of you, not even a fraction of of a movement, “それならそうと言ってくれればいいのに.”

(Sorenara sou to itte kurereba iinoni. = You should have said so earlier.)

“I didn't think you would be 'helpful' earlier.”

You recognized anger in Genji's voice, bitter and frail but attached to every word. "It's easy for you to think that, I'm sure."

"None of this has been easy.”

Considering all of his previous outbursts and impulses, Genji was quiet for a long time. There was just enough concentration in his gaze to solidify that he cared, that he was thinking of how to respond. That it mattered.

"Jesse has been keeping his eyes on the commander. We assume he knows more than he's saying, presumably it's for our own good, but he's only setting us up to be blindsided. If he has information, we need it."

As you explained, McCree nodded, conscientiously. His gaze drifted from your profile, where his deep brown eyes had been pensively anchored, over to the cyborg as he searched for signs of comprehension or empathy, something to signal that the meeting had not been a complete waste of time. The more you spoke, the more receptive Genji had appeared to become. He raised a hand, slicking his hair back as his focus loosened and eyelashes fell over his eyes. An audible exhale made both you and McCree exceedingly aware of how long it had been since he had said anything.

“So, you'll cooperate?” You prodded. Immediately after you spoke, whether it was conscious or not, you heard McCree inhale deeply from next to you then hold his breath in anticipation.

“I promised you, didn't I?” Genji said, flatly.

You gave a thin, close-lipped smile that the cyborg appraised with a little _tch_.

McCree's chest heaved as he exhaled, somewhere between astounded and amazed that you had managed to get him to agree. “So you’ll do what you can?”

“Would you like me to give you the definition of cooperation, _cowboy_?” But instead of anger or anything of the sort, McCree extended his arm across the table for a handshake. Genji eyed him, cautiously as ever.  "何?”

McCree looked to you to translate, keeping his hand where it was. “ _What_ ,” you responded, mechanically.

“I mean, what'd he say?”

“That's what I meant.”

“Damnit Fluffy, why couldn’t you just say that?” McCree shot over the table as Genji rose to his feet.

“I said I’d cooperate, I never said when.”

Even with the handshake being snubbed and the lingering awkwardness of the three of you in a dissolving conversation, you were satisfied. McCree announced that he would return to the commander's office and Genji mentioned his bandages were overdue to be changed. McCree reminded you to keep what he said about the infirmary in mind and then went as far as to give Genji a small but respectful tilt of his chin. It was only after the cowboy left had Genji asked what he meant. You assured him it was nothing but offered to go with him, assuming you could afford to be away from your office for a while longer. Genji surprisingly agreed but neither of you said a word to the other as you moved through the hallways together, even though there was more than enough to say.

 

* * *

 

The new scientist working in close quarters with your medic, Dr. O'Deorain, was tall and svelte. She wore an ivory form-fitting lab coat and a black dress shirt underneath, ginger hair slicked back. Immaculately. There was little interest in you, walking in with a curiosity like Genji that she locked in on with all the eagerness of a cat watching a laser pointer. 

“ _My, my_... Mister Shimada, I presume. What a pleasure it is to have you here before me now, in the flesh. _Somewhat,_ ” said with a cruel undertone, with an accent encasing each word. Her complete heterochromia struck you as one blue eye and one red widened with interest. “Oh, I’ve heard all about you and the paeans sung in your name, you’ve reached godhood in the professional sphere but I’m sure you must already be aware of this...”

Genji's entire being coiled tightly; there was no transitional sequence between states, just loose-limbed to tense. You felt his unease as if it were a part of the room's environmental texture, something tangible like the linen of the cots or the sharp and dense wafting smell of chemicals. He maintained that unaffected tone he loved so much, refusing to convey a weakness or unease, “Where's the medic?”

"What a concise response." O’Deorain’s eyes flashed, sizing up his aversion, finding a weakness. “Am I boring you, Mister Shimada?”

Genji retreated back into the safety of his silence, a look of distant frustration and taut muscle, likely unable to keep his voice from wavering.

The scientist continued, holding a finger up in the air, apropos of nothing, “I know this is our first meeting and that I would usually reserve my observations but may I just say that never once have I seen something so _needlessly complicated_.”

Although it didn’t involve you, you felt Genji’s resistance to speak. “What do you mean _complicated_?”

“Of course, this is not to say what is standing before me isn't ingenious work. It is most exceptional to see the intricacies I've read about in medical journals... Omnic technology synthesized in a human vessel, two worlds driven apart by a nasty history but working together to keep you alive... Incredible, _poetic_ even. But, it is equally baffling as to why I was not asked to mend you. I have surrendered my life to such work and I could have done so without turning you into a quilt of metal. This is how I stand by what I said: you really are _complicated_.” Her gaze engulfed Genji once again, who had done all that he could not to respond. “You've been made a pariah because of Overwatch and their experimentation. _Persona non grata._  So many judgmental gazes and so much disconnection... We have Dr. Zeigler to thank for all that, don’t we?”

Genji’s bout of silence was a declaration in itself. It seemed unending until she provoked him with a sharp raise of her brow as if she could reach into his thoughts and pull out the answers he was withholding. He took a shallow, defensive inhale, puffing his chest out. “If you know then why are you asking?”

“Forgive me and my speech, Mister Shimada, I am merely passionate about what I do and curious of opposing methods. Scientists learn assumption is dangerous, so, we must test our every hypothesis...All that aside, the matter still stands. You're here for a different professional opinion—here, come.”

“We prefer to see the medic,” you said, protectively, gut-instinct doing all the work for you.

Genji turned to hold you in his gaze, looking for something in your expression. A perfunctory check. Yet, his eyes lingered.

O’Deorain made a weak gesture with a hand, filtering sunlight from the window behind her through long-nailed fingers. “Unfortunately your medic is not here right now, however, I might be of service in his absence.” Her face was of clinical seriousness, annoyance hidden well underneath for being massively overqualified.

You looked to Genji, instinctually, to asses what he was thinking but he had already been staring at you. He and you both froze, breath hitching, as you realized what you had done before firing your gaze off in a completely different direction. Genji edged closer to the scientist, shrugging a sleeve of his unzipped sweater down his arm. Dr. O'Deorain made no observable fluctuation in her expression before turning towards the stainless steel cabinet to meticulously sanitize her hands and glove up. You moved closer, as well, standing between the two and doing your best not to hover or appear anxious.

Genji began picking at the gauze wrapped around his shoulder when she shoo’ed his hand away. “I'm the one with gloves on. Allow me.”

She unwound the thin linen and exposed the bulletwound. Genji’s focus darted towards you, not that it was a particularily gruesome sight so many days after the fact, only that it forced you to think of the stinging pain he'd endured. A hotness rose in his face from underneath the plates as if it were something he should have been ashamed of exposing to the room. Outwardly, you did your best to look supportive, to not wince or gag. Blood made all things painfully human.

“All wounds need air to heal... No shattered bones, no infection,” O’Deorain said before asking, almost pleasantly. “Do you have any concerns? Has it given you any problems?”

Genji responded, thick-voiced, “No.”

"No to all the above. Good..." She continued her careful examination, seemingly satisfied, “I don’t see anything of concern here. It looks sound— as far as traditional medicine is concerned. If I had been able to see you first, the only thing left over would be the memory of the impact, a psychological residue. Nary a scar to prove the tale... unless, of course, you prefer the rugged aesthetic.”

He huffed, indignantly, at another of her cruel, yet not necessarily untrue observations.

The scientist’s attention wandered and she picked up his arm at the wrist, Genji _tch_ -ed for the trouble of being positioned like an action figure with opposable limbs. He shot another look towards you as if you could have helped. O'Deorain blinked slowly, fascinated with the red tubing that surfaced from his organic limb as if she were looking at the roots of a tree, breaking through earth. She remained quiet until she pulled away from him and a smile liquified her professional neutrality. “Overwatch supports _this_ but frowns upon _my work_ for short-sightedness and unchecked desire…” She shook her head, mournfully, reciting the criticisms as if they were written on the surrounding walls. “Grand.”

Genji said nothing in return. The scientist turned her gaze on you and you decided it was a perfect moment to look lost thought, a student avoiding their professor calling on them during a crowded lecture.

“Tell me, Mister Shimada, if I could heal your wound quickly, would you be interested? I specialize in cellular regeneration—”

“I know what you do,” Genji interrupted, coldly.

“Such a minor thing it is, one small treatment of mine and you’d be set right.”

“I’m not interested,” Genji asserted without a shred of remorse. "Thank you."

“Oh, charming you are...” Dr. O'Deorain let his arm go as if it were slimy, visibly discouraged. She took an inhale as her next angle struck her, attempting something like a kind smile. “Commander Reyes will keep you out of missions until it is no longer a problem, something that will surely take more time than you have patience for. I can change that, easily. Would you care to rethink your answer or will you cling to this profitless obstinance?”

Genji’s voice dropped to something practiced and menacing, “Angela told me enough about you, _Moira._ ”

“She did, did she?”

“If I had a choice of either becoming your experimental subject or getting shot again, I’d take the bullet.”

“Pity him who makes an opinion a certainty.”

“Do you understand me, Dr. O’Deorain?”

“I _heard_ you, Mister Shimada. We'll do things your way so by all means, unclench, please.” Confounded by his most basic algorithm, sheer refusal to take logistical bait, she moved towards the large metallic cabinet. The doors squealed as they opened and she gathered salves and a fresh roll of gauze. “So old-fashioned, practically obsolete,” the scientist huffed out. “ _Jaysis,_  a literal bandage over a bulletwound. _Mar dhea_.”

The three of you stood in heavy silence, Moira dutifully tending to the injury with none of the previous impoliteness hindering her, able to set it aside to focus on keeping a steady hand. And although there was no sensation of pain, Genji reached out and grabbed hold of your forearm just to make sure you were still there with him—secured in arm’s reach and not one bit further.

 

* * *

 

“Should I consider it?”

Genji asked once the paint-chipped infirmary doors swung shut, restoring a sense of privacy about the lonely hallway. _It_ , Moira’s proposition, a question that you were unsure how to approach all the same considering how adamantly he shut her down just minutes ago. Your eyes raked over him, extending the pause in your search for insight, believing the correct answer was hidden somewhere. Genji seemed to sense this and his gaze twisted away disapprovingly. 

You gave up trying to fence him in and invested in the vacancy around you, a featureless stretch of roiled floors and white brick. “Is my opinion going to make any difference? You already decided you'd rather  _eat bullets._ ”

“Even so, I wonder..." he left his sentence hanging, loathe to admit, "...if I was being impulsive."

“You? Impulsive?" You gestured, vaguely, making a face. 

Genji leaned in, impatiently, ignoring your ridicule. He wanted you to be unable to escape his hypotheticals, to make you feel pressure and urgency in the shrinking space between where you stood but you held your ground and turned your chin up in voiceless defiance, inversely proving what his proximity meant by pretending it had no effect.

“What if I accept the treatment?” His voice fell, maddeningly low, cutting the edge of each syllable. Playing with the words, playing with you.

Hardly allowing his question to settle in the air, faintly perfumed by medicinal chemicals, you scoffed. “You won't."

He asked back just as quickly as you had responded, wrongfully amused by your timing. "No?"

"It’s not you.”

“What is?”

“Being agreeable.”

"こら..."

(Kora... = Hey...)

"Sure, you'd benefit but you just don't have it in you to give Moira the satisfaction. You love seeing people frustrated and doing the opposite of what people expect. Maybe it makes you feel good or powerful. Or, like you're the one in control." He flinched. Not only had you struck a nerve, you repeatedly bashed it over and over. "You never shed that part of your personality, never outgrew it... What if you stopped putting yourself before what really matters?”

You knew his anger well. What it did to the eyes especially.

“What matters in place like this,” Genji interrupted, "I'd love an answer! No one trusts anyone here and that's exactly the way it should be. Didn't you say Reyes is keeping secrets? What does that tell you, huh? Don't you understand? People will only protect you long enough to get close, they won't hesitate to stab you in the back when time comes.”

"That's not true," you argued. "You can't assume _everyone_ walks around with daggers. Is that why you've decided to isolate yourself?"

His hand latched around your wrist, just as he had before in the infirmary. _All wounds need air to heal._  "I have to look out for myself," his confidence slipped and what remained wasn't substantial enough to keep his voice from quaking. Holding his cybernetic hand up, you both watched as his fingers refolded into a fist. Controlled, mechanical. "They don't accept me. Not anymore. Not like this.”

“Well, they'll have to learn then, won't they?” You felt the solemn weight of what you should have said in your shoulders. _I've been looking out for you, whether you want to see it or not._

“Half-human, half-machine. What if... I don't know how to accept I've become either?”

Your mind blanked. He could have just as easily reached out and decked you in the face—you wouldn't have felt a thing. You were so overcome by the sensation of blood rushing into your fingertips. Pins and needles danced down your arms and everything else simply failed to register.

"Tell me what I’m supposed to do."

“I don’t know."

“Please,” he begged before he thought better of it. His honesty was a product of momentum, not the conscious mind. "Tell me how I'm supposed to trust again. Others. Myself."

In a hasty search for compatible rationalization, a way to break his vulnerability into manageable parts, all you could focus on was how _this_ was the same person with the green hair and the bright, silvery laugh who used to fall asleep spread out like a star-fish. The same person who once went out in public with you wearing a full sentai costume and no embarrassment, who used to frequent arcades and hold his breath when he was close to breaking his old high scores... All memories ghosted along, haunting and filling the spaces you both pretended not to notice. 

The past would _always_ be there between you.

“Why can’t you just answer me?" His voice sang with frustration. You felt his nails dig in through the sleeve of your sweater in concern you had slipped away into non-response, concern you were gone even as you stood inside his grasp. "Say something.”

“I care about you,” you croaked out. Something in him changed. He pulled his spine back, snapped his eyes shut, and released his grip. “Don't get me wrong, if there's one person alive who makes me _shit bricks_ , it's you, but that doesn't change how I feel. If you want to consider Moira's treatment, I'll be the last person to stand in your way... So, there. Happy now?”

In his silence, indecision of what to say and how it should be said, he unlatched his lower faceplate. One fluid motion. Once it was freed, he held onto it limply with his cybernetic hand, allowing fluorescence from overhead to pool along its curvature before looking towards you once again. Of course he would only reveal his face when it looked _so goddamn smug_.

“It’s not _her_ hurting me that I'm worried about, you know,” said Genji, leaving you helplessly subject to face you knew _all too well_. The noble features, angular and scarred. He smirked afterwards as if it were merely a harmless bend of the lips and not something ambiguously weaponized.

“I suppose Moira can’t do anything worse to you than what you do to yourself... I mean, a training bot?Really?"

He gave you a hard sigh, more dramatic than suffering. “ああ, いやなこと言わないで...”

(Aa, iyana koto iwanaide... = Ah, don't remind me...)

“I’d rather not constantly be worrying about you on top of everything else going on.”

"Don’t you ever get tired of pretending to care about me?” He asked, expression unfaltering.

“I’m tired right now, actually. Tired and ready to head back to my office, as much fun as this has been.”

“Ah, leaving so soon?” A half-lidded gaze followed you as you departed. “Was it something I said?”

You took one last look back towards Genji and his rigid, broken grin. “You know, it usually is.”


	15. Chapter 15

Kind and soft-spoken—though it was the fact that she spoke at all that annoyed Astor, who had still not said a word to you since your disagreement—Lea proved to be helpful. If anything, his reluctance to work alongside you only pushed you closer with your new officer, who seemed ready for everything Blackwatch threw at her. From the assignments to the weather. You were still in the habit of doubling up on socks while she frequently sat across from you with her heavy sweater slung over the back of her chair. You gawked at the rolled-up sleeves of her thermals.

McCree's new routine was based on the movements Reyes and despite being the commander's shadow, he never had anything suspicious to report. This was both a blessing and a curse as it took the edge off the days but left you inclined to question Jesse's suspicions in the first place, something you didn't like to have sitting at the back of your mind. You stayed busy, absorbed in tasks, prone to wondering who among you would be proved right during quiet moments.

Commander Reyes was pleased that everything was running along smoothly, Commander Morrison too. Transfer considered, your assistance to Overwatch had been invaluable and Captain Amari went to the trouble of sending a care package for all your efforts and success. One morning, you found it sitting at a junction of empty desks in your office. As you rummaged through, you unearthed a bottle of expensive-looking whiskey with a handwritten note attached to the neck:

 _“A strong drink will chase off the chill in the air._  
_Stay bundled up, keep your spirits high, and most importantly  
 don’t let Gabriel know that I broke one of his cardinal rules.”_

You placed it in a desk drawer for safe-keeping, deciding to 'forget about it' until the time was right— hopefully surprise a certain cowboy with it down the line. As you closed the drawer, metallic squeal of rusting metal breaking the still of the empty room, you heard the sound of spurs and multiple other footsteps fast approaching. The door opened and everyone arrived at the same time: Astor, Lea, the Commander, and Jesse. As Astor shuffled away, face devoid of any telling emotion, the others appeared to be in high-spirits.

Commander Reyes immediately went to investigate the box as if it were the highest priority. He swiped a hand over the identification tag and chuckled to himself, “Ana sending presents? I hope she doesn't fall into the habit spoiling you kids, I'm not sure how I'm supposed to compete.”

McCree crooned, settling himself over a corner of your desk, "I guess that means you'd have to start tryin'."

"You and I both know I'm not about to," Commander Reyes said with a shrug before peering inside the crate. His voice changed, just enough for you to to understand something in particular had piqued his interest, "Jesse, come here for a second...”

You froze, feeling as if the commander’s 6th sense noticed an absence in the box, that he had somehow intuitively known the captain sent contraband. You felt your palms get hot and scratchy, mentally stringing half-assed excuses together.

“That what I think it is?” Jesse asked, sauntering over, eyes bright and interested.

Reaching inside the crate, the commander pulled out a metallic tin that had went unnoticed to you and cradled it with both hands. “She sent all the good stuff, that what you were thinking?”

Home baking, or the 'good stuff' as it had been referred to it. Reyes opened various containers, thoughtfully packed in cornflower blue and saffron crinkled paper, releasing the aromatic scent of cloves, almond, tahini, and fig masking the smell of overworked electronics. Egyptian flatbreads were sent among the sweets, ironically, resembling pitas. Apparently, one specific variety was the core of the commander's animation, a kind of sentimentality that only taste could revive and as he marvelled at the stash, Jesse stole a look over his shoulder towards you, tipping his hat up so you could see the face he was making of barely-contained devilry that fluttered over his features. You mouthed _'what'_ but his smile only deepened and he turned back to face Reyes.

“It’s stuff like this that makes me miss the good people at Overwatch.” The commander let out an appreciative sigh as he took a handful of cookies, saluting your curious gaze with a nod. “I might leave you one. Or two.”

“Really makes y'think about how far away from civilization we are out here,” McCree said, a gloved hand resting at his chin.

“It's only temporary, Jesse. Keep your chin up, I'm working on it.”

"Right, boss." McCree nodded, thoughtfully taking his bottom lip between his teeth. _So am I._

Reyes clapped a hand down on his shoulder then shook his head and starting rounds about the room, one of the rare moments when McCree would allow him to walk freely without being tailed. You swivelled in your chair to face the monitors once again but spurs clicked and McCree swept up behind you, murmuring directly in your ear: “Track him."

You let the shiver crawl up your body, extend along your spine then disintegrate. “Who?" You already knew who he meant.

McCree's voice turned gravelly as he crouched lower, using the arm rest of your chair for support. His nose grazed your cheek. "Pita."

You recoiled. "Sorry, but, _no-fucking-way_."

Reyes himself looked over, breaking his private conversation with Astor. “You good over there?"

“Fine!" You smiled, thinly, voice high and straining, "We're fine!” Aside from looking guilty as sin, McCree naturally deciding to mimic your expression, Reyes turned away, disinterested. Even Lea who had peered over at you from the corner of her eye decided she had better things to do. Unwilling to look away from your console, just _knowing_ what face Jesse was making, your voice returned to a whisper, “I can't do that.”

“Actually, I know y'can...” McCree rose to his full height to spin your chair around, making you unfortunately—or fortunately, maybe— precisely level with his crotch. You looked up, focus passing over the belt buckle and the front of his armour, finding his gaze. He winked, finding no shred of embarrassment. 

You pushed a deep exhale through your nose. "We have to draw the line somewhere."

“Listen," superfluous to say, because you were, but you assumed a 'listening face' as he explained, "I’m off on a mission soon. Pita is stayin' here and I expect that's when you'll be free to make your move. I'd really appreciate bein' on the same page since," his focus swivelled away for a second or two, checking the nearest display to gauge the clock, "we're kind of pressed for time."

"So, you want me to do this alone?” You asked in reasonable disbelief, careful not to let your eyes dip from his neck, as hard as it was. (Not that _it_ was hard.)

Jesse took a considerate step back, his face wry. "Actually, I was thinkin' you'd get Fluffy t'do all the work."

“Uh, beg your pardon?”

"He got his hands on my file without Pita knowin’ so I'm thinkin' he could do this, too. This can be a trial run, see if he's sincere or not. If he helps, he's proved himself in my books. If it blows up in our faces, we have a scapegoat and blame the whole thing on him. How's that sound?"

You felt obligated to give him a reprimanding look. Of course, Genji would _never_ get caught and you accepted that as fact. It was more of a fear that he would vanish into thin air, as ninjas are very capable of doing, leaving you to to face the commander's wrath alone.

"I wouldn't be askin' if I wasn't dead certain you could do it." The way Jesse said so sounded like many things to you, none of them concerned; he had become a fast expert at speaking with such startling conviction. He was so obviously cut from the same cloth as Commander Reyes, with a matching strength of spirit you identified in Captain Amari and Commander Morrison too. McCree learned so much from them by adopting their ways and suffering their failures. 

He'd make a damn fine commander or captain some day, if he wanted.

“I can't believe all the things you've talked me into recently but..." Giving up on words, you settled with a nod. _But here's another._

 

* * *

 

You resumed usual operations as early morning rolled into late afternoon. The washed-out sky and the bleak natural light from the window distorted your sense of time, none of the clocks seemed to move fast enough and your work day dragged on uneventfully. Uneventful was a blessing. Astor, pleased to find various herbal tea inside the care package, made the delicate scent of chamomile drift about the room. Lea ate an apple in the hallway. Reyes made no pages and sent no assignments.

You were thankful to be patched through to a transmission over your headset, something to fill the rest of the shift, speaking through a headset as you idly flicked through messages on your main console. 

“You've reached Eastwood's whiskey barrel, how may we be of service today?”

You instantly recognized the voice on the other end. “... Um, McCree?”

There was the sound of gunfire underneath the sound of his mellow laughter, neither able to completely mask the other. You felt your heart nearly jump out of your chest in surprise. “Yeah, sorry, it's Jesse speakin’.”

“Weren't you like, just here? Where are you?”

“Out, about. You know how it is.”

“Seriously?”

“Well, the precise level of seriousness is entirely up for debate but I'm serious enough.” There was a moment or two of controlled silence, a laugh escaped his nose that he failed to suppress. “We’ll be finished here in no time, this raid has an official danger scale rating of one but that's only because I stubbed my toe. Put on brave face on for the kids and, oh, hold on a second— _HEY SMALL FRY, BEST BE WATCHIN' THAT FLANK, GOT IT?_ — sorry, Lucky, pardon me, it's like watchin' a bunch of kids put on a school pageant out here. Still got lot of learnin' ahead but they're doin' the best they can... You can't see me now but I'm beamin'. I'd tell you to check the fly cams but Fluffy busted them all up.”

“Take a selfie," you said as you leaned back in your chair, kicking one leg over the other. "You've worked hard with them, I'm not surprised they're out there making you proud. I'm proud of you, can I say that?"

"Aw, _shucks_ , of course you can," even the corniest word in his vocabulary couldn't fully shirk off the fluster your compliment inspired, "I did what I could, hope it was good enough t'get a fire in their bellies."

You began to respond but were silenced as another round of fire went off, louder and clearer than the first. " _Holy shit, my ears..._  You still there?"

"Sure am. Don’t worry, I'm indestructible."

"You'd better be."

“The folks we're after have some truly godawful aim, worse than the training bots... Though, it is mighty endearing that you sound so concerned..."

“Are you seriously flirting right now?”

“Oh, now _that_ I’m admittedly serious about but not the reason why I needed comms." He gathered himself into a little pause, priming you. "Get this: Commander Reyes ate _all_ of the cookies.” You waited for a punchline. McCree cleared his throat as a barrage of more bullets pelted his end of the line. "... None of that made one lick of sense now, did it?”

“I kind of thought it was a weird metaphor or something.”

“I’m a literal man, Lucky, and Pita literally ate every single one. I don't know how long he'll be out for, only that I saw the empty tin on his desk just before I left. If I were you, I'd get Fluffy and get a move on—”

“I know you're speaking to me but none of the words are making sense.”

“Right now, Pita is asleep. Vulnerable. I'm sure of it.”

“ _Oh god_ , what did you do?”

“Ain’t anythin’ I did, personally but Ana mighta done a thing or two.”

“A thing like—?”

“A thing like using the information I gave her about Pita havin’ a hard time sleepin’ or somethin' of that particular nature... I'll guess that those famous cookies Reyes can't resist for the life of him were spiked with a little something extra, t'cure that horrible insomnia...”

 _Not chamomile_ ,you had a feeling, the scent still looping about the air. “Excellent. Well, we're dead if he ever finds out that we drugged him.”

“We'll be long gone by the time he pieces it together. I'm still thinkin' route 66, boiled-dirt coffee and all. Nice change of scenery, us baskin' in the desert sun.” Even without his physical presence, words breaking into grins and the glimmer in his eye, it was all still there as he spoke. “Remember, blame Fluffy on the off chance it gets ugly. Got it?”

"Got it," you said, adding afterwards, sincerely, “Don’t get shot.”

“And you, don’t get caught. McCree out.”

Lifting the headset off, you sat calm and still, letting everything settle as much as it could before paging Genji. He took his time but eventually showed up, hands stuffed in the pockets of his sweater lazily zipped to the centre of his chest. You hadn’t picked up on his stealth approach, or how he nudged the door open with his toes, but gauged his presence by the widening of Lea’s eyes in surprise. Apparently no one bothered mentioning the cyborg to her earlier.

“I thought you were going to stand me up,” you said, neutral tone in spite of the butterflies that swarmed in your stomach.

Genji was blessedly relaxed in your presence, no residual vulnerability from your last conversation, just the same bored tone. He waved obnoxiously over your shoulder towards Lea who had apparently been unable to disengage her attention before reaching for the doorknob shutting it swiftly.  “Stand you up? Why would I ever do a thing like that?”

“Because you have.”

Saying so gathered his complete attention once more and his focus landed sharply, requiring full eye-contact. You could hear his slick voice bend and assumed he was frowning behind the shiny metal barrier over the lower-half of his face. “I’ve changed since then.”

“And somehow, miraculously, you've kept the same old routine.”

“Such flattery, I'm humbled,” he tutted, tilting his head without breaking his stare, looking at you through eyelashes, “I assume you called me for a reason. What do you want?”

“You."

He raised both eyebrows, neither in concern or surprise, specifically.

"Sorry, let me try that again," you cleared your throat, unnecessarily, "I need the commander’s communicator and I want your help to do that.”

You were prepared to negotiate, considered explaining or relaying what McCree had said to you over comms but Genji was already swayed; you wanted him to do something dicey and for that, he was already on board. “Ah! Could it be? You've changed as well!"

"Genji," you scolded.

"Let me have my fun."

"Stealing, or, no— _borrowing without asking_  is also fun. Are you in?"

"It would be a pleasure to do something _so impulsive_ with you.”

 

* * *

 

The blinds were drawn over the frost-formed window panes, cold grey light pressed into the walls and floors in series of bars. Genji slipped into the room then seemingly disappeared into the particles of the office before reappearing by the desk, bending strips of light as he passed through them. The commander, all forward slump and face nested in the cradle of his arms, breathed loudly. An indication of his deep sleep. Genji crept behind the chair and for a second, fell perfectly into frame with the goat’s skull on the blackwatch flag hanging proudly. Judgmentally, even. He scanned the desktop first, shifting files and the empty cookie tin about without a sound. Once he was satisfied, he backed up a step and crouched, turning his attention towards the drawers, opening each one with the creak of old wood that had not yet begun to rot.

Each little scrape and groan made you wince.

Producing nothing, Genji drew back once more and pressed a hand to the underside of his jaw. His confounded gaze flickered towards where you stood at the edge of the room. You mouthed 'pockets' while pointing to your own and Genji nodded, firmly, then peered over the commander's bulky shoulders. You bit down on your lip as he dusted, ever so slightly, his fingers down the commanders sides. Each second seemed endless until Genji pulled the little rectangular piece of technology out of the front pocket of the commander's hooded sweater. As the cyborg crept back towards the door where you had stood waiting, tensed to run, the commander gave one big resounding snore, scaring the both of you half to death. Genji launched himself out of the room and you took off down the hallway with him, watching the cords tumble and sway in his effortless speed.

“Let’s do that again!” Genji, who had loved every moment, said as you slowed into a walk once you were a safe distance away and no longer had to keep quiet. His enthusiasm afforded you a great calmness, flattening the worry, extinguishing the flame, something you appreciated even if it were only temporary and gone after a few more footsteps.

“Technically, we have to," you panted, "I need you to put it back after I'm done.”

"What are you planning to do with it?"

"Bug it."

“See this face I’m making?” He stopped walking first, but you followed, wheeling around to check. He raised a finger, drawing an imaginary line around the perimeter of his face, still swallowed by metal plating. “I’m not surprised you know how to do this, seeing where you came from—”

“Say one thing about my family right now and I'll end you, I'm not kidding.”

“I wasn’t about to. This is the closest to impressed that I’ve been with anyone in a long time. I’m not surprised, I’m kind of... _into it_. But, yeah, I'll bet your rat father taught you.”

You thought of kicking him in the shin but amazingly restrained yourself. “Can we just get this over with?”

Looking for shelter, a few minutes of necessary privacy, you found a dusty broom cupboard. It was a small, narrow thing, scant lighting by one bulb that miraculously didn’t blow as you pulled on the twine. You both took to a wall to lean on, opposite the other. The sheer confinement of space ensured you had no place to look but at the other's face.

“Walk me through it,” Genji said, interested in how fast you began to work.

“Funny that the olive branch is doing something incredibly stupid and immoral.”

“Of course it is and I treasure that,” he said, shockingly without an insincere lilt, "How does this work?"

“When I'm done, we'll be able to monitor his usage. Remote observation, discrete. The tracker wakes up, periodically, sending a signal to me...” You clarified quickly, gesturing vaguely with your free hand, “Us.”

Genji said, the unkillable diabolical voice making a comeback, “I want in.” You immediately wanted to say _no_. He tipped his chin down, batting his eyelashes. “You trust me. Right, Lucky?”

After the fuss you made recently in the hallway outside the infirmary, you were aware of how hypocritical it would have been to say anything but some variation of yes. _Physician heal thyself._ “We’re _beginning_ to trust each other,” you said, allowing him to notice the totality of your apprehension.

“So, then, we can begin here.”

“Is this your way of making sure I was being sincere before? Are you just testing me?”

“No more than you're testing me. If you want me to put the communicator back, I’ve earned something for the risk.”

"So, in other words, we're resorting to extortion. That's new.”

"It's not," he mumbled before raising his voice for a patronizing little reminder with another flutter of lashes. “We’re simply having _fun_.”

“That's right, it’s all just game to you," mumbling, you took his communicator from his outstretched hand and plugged it into your own, giving him exactly what he asked for, "You don’t care and I can't make you but I keep trying to anyway. I guess underneath it all I want to believe you’re still a good person—”

“I am,” he said, firmly.

“You were.” The communicator chirped, signifying the completed task, breaking the complicated air between you. You ripped the cord out and gave him his device back. "Don't say I've never done anything for you. This wasn't a part of our deal but I'm _trusting_ you with it, so don't go stabbing me in the back. Okay?"

He nodded, slowly and continued to watch you closely. Attentively.

 

* * *

 

Just as Genji managed to slip the communicator back into the commander’s pocket, it went off. So did yours. And Genji's.

Genji pulled his hand back and away as if he had touched a hot stove, throwing you a desperate look that you mimicked. Instinct screamed at you to slam the door shut but your body failed to respond, like a lagging computer. Hyper-focus and adrenaline sharpened everything, looking over your beeping device at the cause of it all. A double alert from McCree and you expected Genji to dash and he almost does so, says the panic in his eyes, until Reyes let out a gigantic snore. Unaffected by the sound.

Genji stopped short, turning his gaze over his shoulder to look back and communicate a kind of mischief you hated to place. _Whatever it is, not now._ You waved, almost angrily, trying to pull him out of the room with the motion as you watched him turn away from you. He crept back over to the desk to poke commander’s shoulder roughly.

No response.

You gave the heaviest sigh of your life and hastily turned your attention towards your communicator. The double alert was McCree's victory selfie, unabashedly smoking a cigar surrounded by recruits, all posing, debris and fire in the background. You would have adored the photo if it was sent in better timing. Looking back up, you caught Genji positioning one of the commander’s fingers so it loosely fit in his nose. Stepping back to appreciate his work, beyond pleased that the commander stayed put, Genji pressed his own palm to his gut and you heard him huff out little laughs of amusement. While ninety percent of you wanted to choke the life out of the cyborg, a healthy ten percent of you considered it as payback for all the flaming hoops you had been made to jump through. Juvenile, but payback nonetheless.

After taking a picture, covertly, Genji retreated with an irritating new swagger in his step that made you want to shut and lock the door in his face before he crossed through the frame. “You and I both know that _Gabe_ doesn't sleep,” he said, holding crumbs with his thumb and forefinger in the fine space between his face and yours. "What did you put in these and how can I get my hands on some?"

"You'll have to ask Captain Amari. Or, McCree."

He was transparently amused by your response. "あれ? This was McShithead’s doing? But... it's brilliant.”

(Are? = Huh?)

“Jesse wrote to Ana about Reyes having insomnia, she delivered with this care package. I don't think the intention was for him to eat the entire batch in one go, kind of looks like we've just about put him in a coma...”

“So it seems," Genji snickered, forever finding delight in the most unusual places. A high arch took over his brow. "Still, the cowboy was the brains behind all this... I wasn’t aware he had any!”

You opened your mouth to protest then decided against it; that was as close to a compliment as Genji had ever been when talking about McCree and you wanted to leave it at that.

“For once, I’m not the one starting problems," Genji spoke as he pulled you into his side, bringing his cybernetic arm around your shoulder. The taut and inflexible body was no less apparent swathed by his fleece hooded sweater. "Aren't you proud of me?"

You shook your head, pressing both hands to your temples, warding off a steadily approaching headache. The rush from excitement prior had pulled back like a tide and made you feel nauseous, so did the fact that you weren't the least bit annoyed by Genji's extreme closeness. It was almost— _nice_. “Please don’t make me think too hard about this.”

"What's next?"

"We wait."


	16. Chapter 16

Waiting in the annex for the Orca BW-001 to return, you studied your surroundings while able to take them in without distraction— for once. The structure you stood in was of both timelessness and impermanence without committing fully to one over the other. It was worn from preliminary use but still fit the narrative of being long-abandoned; functional architecture that had quickly lost all function; built to be forgotten about. Yet it remained, faithful to slow deterioration, withstanding every harsh season to roll over the unsheltered plain at the world’s edge.

You stood facing the twin ATVs that had not budged an inch since the Commander confiscated the keys and it was a strange thought to have had so much happen in a matter of days but stranger yet to consider, even for a second, that there was any kind of fondness attached to the fear you had once felt. In your moment of no special occasion, you accepted that Blackwatch _was_ your second home— a kind of recognition that happily snuck up on you because it was never the room but the people who occupied it that mattered— and you decided your new company had been well worth all the trouble they put you through.

A knowing smile pulled at your lips.

Prefaced by a mechanical gurgle and squealing gears in motion, the mammoth garage door gradually opened and allowed for the ship to gracefully skate inside. Gusts of arctic wind and snow created an icy vortex under the belly as it landed, the garage door clattering shut with a great echo. After a swell of others had disembarked, you caught sight of McCree as he laughed enthusiastically with the pilot. The moment he saw you waiting— magnetic eye-contact, two souls sparking back to life— he appeared to forget about whatever joke had captured him. It’s then when he broke into a little run in your direction and you embraced, feeling his arms lock tightly around your sides and siphoning off all the warmth of his being that made you impervious to the lingering coldness in the air. Clearing her throat loudly, Scout made sure to remind you that she did not want any part of witnessing potential PDA and Jesse let you loose.

With a tip of his hat, brim pulled down his nose, he took a respectable step back. You were satisfied that he had returned uninjured, save for the mussed hair, the look on his face said enough. “Can't tell you how glad I am t'see you,” he murmured, sweetly, taking his bottom lip between his teeth.

“Not as glad as I am to see you,” you said as the retelling of a story began rising in your throat. There was a substantial amount to report on in the hours of his absence.

“You’re probably right,” he agreed, capturing you with a focused gaze. "But, first things first. I brought you a souvenir..." He held up a external drive. Even considering the film of grime and dust, you knew it was a thing of glory as he delivered it to your palms. The simplicity of the interaction struck you as what every day should have been like, _do your job and move on_ , but it was never that simple.

In the face of such a bittersweet moment, you kept your chin up, managing to smile, graciously so. "Thanks, Pumpkin! You shouldn't have!"

"Aw, don't mention it," McCree sneered,  _you're never going to let me live down talking in my sleep_. "Overwatch wants whatever secrets that thing has to tell us, huh... Coordinates to a weapons cache, a music library full of illegal downloads perhaps? The endless opportunity has me shakin' in my boots."

Figuratively. You checked.

"You did good, _Jesse_. There's a future for you in collections full-time if you were ever so inclined..."

"You sweet talkin' me? It was nothin' major, Lucky. Honest. Fun and easy, I like when the two overlap." Overwhelmingly satisfied, he winked before breathing in deeply as reality side-swiped him and the barest hint of apprehension broke over him. Worries about the base returned the more his surroundings sunk in. “So, what'd I miss?”

"Genji finally putting his skills to good use, even though it was completely unnecessary... like most things he does.” Your voice crouched into a whisper, McCree instinctively leaned closer to better hear you. "So, does Captain Amari often bake with horse tranquillizers?"

"Only if y'ask her to, nicely," McCree joked, gesturing vaguely over his shoulder towards the ship. "Think that batch could'a put an Orca t'sleep..."

You eyed it for a moment, seamless curvature gleaming under the dusty wattage. "Let's just say, the clumsiest person alive could have managed what we did. But, hey, it's done and over with now.”

"I almost hope he's still asleep. You've seen the commander's eyes, denyin' himself the rest he needs... But glad t'hear Fluffy made good on his word, sure is nice t'know we've got everythin' covered." He slowed, features bending, hope and contentment. "Peace at last, huh?"

"Nearly. There's one last step."

From your front sweater pocket, you produced your communicator and a cable. McCree, huddling closer, not that Scout was paying either of you much attention anymore with all the sound she was making, handed his over to yours. Your devices communicated in a series of chirps and flashes as you set up backdoor access all while internally-debating telling Jesse about Genji's demand for the same exploit though assumed it was a secret you could afford to keep to yourself awhile longer.

"You'll be able to read Pita's emails and keep tabs on his location," you explained. "Dead basic stuff but enough for what we need. There isn't much he'll be able to do without us knowing anymore."

McCree pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, swallowing a triumphant look so well-deserved from how much he had agonized over the unknown. "Remember, if he ever finds out we did this, I’ll buy us breakfast on route 66.”

"Somehow, I don't think that's far enough."

"Good point." He gave a weak smile, prefacing a lapse into thought. "Well, the moon then maybe."

"Now you're talking."

With the backdoor successfully set up, you opened the tracking application for a quick demonstration but noticed that the little red target of interest was on the move around the tiny map. Not meandering, not random movements, but purposeful and quick and headed straight for your position. The two of you, synchronized and swearing under your breath, whipped your heads towards the annex doors as they were thrown open.

In strode the commander looking nothing short of devastated.

“We have a problem,” Reyes announced. “A _big_ problem.”

 

* * *

 

You were unsure what you were looking more forward too, the eventual heat death of the universe or the commander blinking and releasing you from his stare.

The aforementioned problem he had described to you, in short, clipped words, was a bomb blowing up in your office— not physically leaving it in pieces but in every other sense of the term. As Reyes slept and you snuck around with Genji, Astor and Lea unknowingly set off a logic bomb, malicious code implanted the software you depended on, programmed to execute and reign complete chaos on your department when predetermined conditions were met… _and met they had been._ All of your consoles and equipment were devastated and all it took was _one wrong action_ to effectively turn your life into a sophisticatedly programmed and veritable hell, sacrificing all the intel you had clutched onto. Files were corrupted. Altered, deleted, scrambled. It couldn't have been worse any way you approached it and there was no way to make it sound less barbaric than it was, but hands down, hearing the news from Reyes _made it all so much worse_.

A logic bomb was an unstoppable chain reaction that you couldn't have undone even if you were present in your office when it executed and much like the conversation between you and Pita, there was no way out unscathed.

“I want you to explain,” the commander did absolutely nothing to soften his glare, "how this is _at all_ possible."

 _Easily_ , your internal voice of reason responded fast enough to overlap the end of his sentence. _We've been targeted for weeks now. While we're frozen in our indecisions, failing to recognize the threat that is so obviously hanging over us, they're acting. We're sitting ducks, it was just a matter of time._

You cultivated practical responses all your life to be ready in moments such as the one you were faced with then, but his question still managed to stun you into speechlessness. Even so, you endured his focus and forced yourself respond; the chasm beneath you was growing, you refused to look down to gauge its depth. "I don't know,” was all you could offer.

“If you’re going to say anything to me, you better make it good." He took a deep breath of total disappointment. "I’ve been informed that while this shit went down, you were MIA. Wanna tell me where you were?”

"Dealing with Genji, sir."

"Yeah? And what was Red up to that was so important you had to leave your office unattended?"

 _Putting your finger up your nose as you slept and taking a picture for blackmail._ "His usual antics, sir."

“So, I’m going to be extremely blunt: this doesn’t make you look good. I really don’t want to have to report what happened to HQ but it's not exactly my decision. I have no idea what our losses will look like, all I know is that this is going to prompt one hell of an internal investigation, another huge waste of resources...” Reyes heaved a heavy sigh, again, one that made his shoulders sink a good inch or two.

“Commander, I don’t know what to say... I-”

"You know what?" Reyes interrupted with a stern shake of his head. "Neither do I."

"Who do you think could have planted it?" You asked, looking for a logical offering while trying to exhaust any potential left in the conversation. There was no reason to believe it was anyone other than the source of the alleged compromise. The ones who were always there and not there, ghosting. You had a conclusion of your own but considering Reyes maintained a position of disbelief, you were unwilling to directly say what you were thinking.

 _Was this their attack in motion?_  A second, worse thought— _was this the whole thing or just the beginning?_

Reyes arched an eyebrow, unwilling to dive into what he had already known you were thinking. "What does Astor think?"

"He's not thinking clearly," you rationalized. “The last time we spoke, he went off on a tangent. Half-baked theories, poisonous plants...”

" _Kid_ , I need you to use your head now more than ever. Try again." The commander kicked back in his chair, clasping his hands over his abdomen; his shift wasn't informal, it was impatient. “Forget the words he used, they're not important. What does he think?"

Your brain whirred to life. "Astor thinks we're working with the enemy."

“Glad you remember,” he said, transparently nothing close to being _glad_. That was enough to jog the memory of Astor's private conversations with Commander Reyes huddled at his desk. Everyone was hunting for their own solutions, just like you and McCree and Genji, searching for order.

"What do you think, do you agree with him?" You asked, the question purposefully loaded. Him agreeing with Astor would prove that he recognized something was wrong. You knew your expression was pleading with him, but by the same token, you noticed his hadn't budged.

"I think that we keep coming dangerously close to the truth," he said, tensing his jaw after the final word.

Your voice pitched, becoming accusatory and even a little resentful. "Commander, from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you've got it all figured out—"

"Huh, well, I know exactly what you know," Commander Reyes leaned forward for an authoritative edge without trying to be vague about it. “Don't push me on this."

You could hardly help it, even if you had clamped a hand over your mouth. “Then why does it feel like you’re lying?”

It took half a second, at best, before the commander was standing at full height. "Have you completely forgotten who you're dealing with? Do you know where you are right now?" It was not a request for clarification but something far more abrasive. "If I'm not severely mistaken, agent, I think I heard you trying to interrogate me."

Were you anyone else, you would have shut down at the mere adjustment of the commander’s tone. You withered into the stillness he imposed as your imagination flared with variables- _smoke, fire, fumes, bone, ash_. It would confound you for a long time after the fact where you found the courage to speak, but you did. "Commander Reyes, respectfully, if it means we'll all live at the end of the day, than _yes sir, I'll interrogate you_."

You both stared at the other, hoping you looked confident while internally overcome with the same feeling of the ATV spinning out of control while sitting motionless. It took a few moments, prolonging the awkwardness between you until he pulled back into himself, replaying how everything had come to head. "You should know," he said, calm voice enabled, sinking back down into his chair, “if I had the necessary intel, there'd be a bodycount."

You sighed, letting go of all the breath you had been holding onto like a balloon let loose in the air. You wished, more than anything, that Commander Reyes had allowed McCree in the room instead of dismissing him, telling him to write up a post-misson report.

"Do some damage control, clean this mess up... Something. I've got emails to send.” He demanded then held a finger up, reminding himself of the last item on his agenda. "Also, pro tip: never do that again. Hear me?  _Never._ ”

"Okay, er— yes, commander. And sir, I'm really—" You hoped momentum would carry you somewhere but words failed.

"Yeah."

"— sorry."

"I know.”

You looked down at your lap, almost thankful that you were as good as dismissed.

He took in a fortifying inhale, pulling your attention back up. “Listen: you’re a solid agent and I need you at your best. Especially now. When you see a good move, look for a better one. No lateral movements and no missteps. We can’t afford to fuck this up now." You couldn't help but feel as if he was speaking to you from behind the veil, a plea directly to your common sense. You went to nod, hoping to prove that it reached you at the intended level but his expression halted you. He asked again. Slower, emptied. "You get what I'm saying?"

"Yes, sir."

And then he said something surprising, _interesting_ , something that would hang in your memory, word for word: "You have my full permission, do whatever it takes."

 

* * *

 

Moving from one place you didn't want to be to another, you returned to your office even though you would have preferred aimless wandering about outside for hours rather than facing your coworkers. As you entered, the first thing you registered was Astor with his hands raked through his hair, staring blankly at his main console. All screens, projected and otherwise, showed the white skull of the Blackwatch ram with the sword that was _supposed to run vertically down its head_  poised at the throat, like a decapitation. An image that burned itself onto the retinas, easily, and as much as you wanted to be angry that they hadn't begun recovering the system, you knew it was stalled for your sake.

You felt your stomach drop, wanting to turn the monitors all off and sit in contemplative silence instead of launching headlong into another difficult conversation. “I’m so sorry." You could hear a pin-drop. You couldn’t apologize enough, no one expected you could but apparently they weren't prepared for you to even try.

“You're sorry? _Eish_ , you walk in after this shit happens and say sorry, _nè?_ A hit and run by digital gangsters and their slag _fokken_ code and you're sorry!” He said, increasingly drained with each slip and articulation. “They corrupted everything. We lost everything.”

You could have argued that you didn't have much in the first place, but the reality was you didn't know what Astor could have found, or subsequently, what he could have lost. Lea was silent as all this unfolded around her, on the cusp. You assumed the emotional eruption made her uncomfortable like someone watching a distressed animal in captivity, she had nothing to offer to either of you save for her own professional silence.

You took a step towards Astor, his expression narrowing from behind his glasses. “We lost files we have no way of backing up, information we’ll never recover—”

"Slow down," you said. Something you often heard as a child, after nightmares that wound you up and had you speaking so fast the words would blend together. This was just that, a nightmare, calling for the same parental tone. _Slow down, calm down._ Of course, there was no 'good reason' to be calm.

"Where were you, _just now?_ " Astor put his hands on his hips then immediately decided it wasn't a strong enough display and raised them. "Don't lie to me, okay? _Ag,_ don't you dare make something up..."

“I had something time-sensitive to take care of,” you said, knowing how poor of an excuse it was. You didn't want to mention bugging the commander's communicator in front of Lea, giving her another quick glance out of your periphery. She looked afraid of Astor, withdrawing to her corner the more he shouted.

“Time-sensitive?” He scoffed, the repeated line twisting his face. “More important than what we're doing here?"

Ironic, you had left with the intention of helping but negligently thrown the balance off, like unknowingly leaving a see-saw and watching the other side plummet. “Nothing is more important, you of all people know that.”

"Except I don’t,” he shook his head with a kind of finality before sinking down in his chair. " _Rammetjie-uitnek_..." He pressed his thumbs to his temples, working them in small circular motions. You waited for a translation, obliged by an urgent whisper after an outwardly reproachful pause. "... We're the ram, yeah. Holding our big head high, oblivious to attacks that come for our neck."

No one spoke the rest of the day, the room filled with the intermittent plinking of equipment flaring to life. The three of you were left with little desire to communicate while having to preform meticulous technical work, dutifully wiping all corrupted traces of Blackwatch's techno-existence in electronic quarantine. You kept to your desks if you could help it and avoided shameful eye-contact. The complete wipe would take time and then more time on top of that for the lengthy process of reloading the OS. The symbolism of switching toggles from from 'master' to 'slave' left you experiencing a sense of total isolation from the world outside the base, let alone, the halls outside the office confines.

With time between each step of the process, you periodically checked on the commander's communicator, lowered to the point of paranoia that he was one email away from piling the blame of the logic bomb on you and asking Jack Morrison to take you back— but no such message was sent. There was, however, a mounting conversation that captured your attention. The network team at Overwatch HQ was barraged with strongly worded emails by Reyes, nailed with expletives and caps-lock that covered the complete spectrum of human emotion from 'MY GOD HOW IS IT POSSIBLE OUR ANTIVIRUS WAS OUT OF DATE' to the more demure, but equally as poignant 'don’t make me come over there and beat some answers out of the admins because I will.'

Knowing that Genji and McCree had been able to keep up with the Commander’s messages on their own time saved you from having to make any real explanations— both even went as so far as to send you comforting messages. Jesse had wrote a couple sincere lines about how he was sorry that there was one more thing to worry about, Genji sent a heartfelt ‘;-(‘ face.

It was around that point in time when Overwatch tech wrote something to the effect of ‘system immunity is a myth’ to which Reyes replied in equal timing: 'you fucking bastards, you total fucking dipshits, that’s it I’m on my way there.' The next to respond was the strike commander himself, intervening on the conversation to assert that 'the signature files were in the process of being updated' and that the bomb had to have ’just squeaked by' to which Pita responded with an emphatic: ’SOMEONE TELL ME HOW THE FUCK IT'S POSSIBLE THAT MY INTEL DEPARTMENT GOES OUT OF COMMISSION WHEN WE’RE THE ONLY ONES OUT HERE GETTING ANYTHING DONE, WHAT A DUMB FUCKING JOKE.'

Amidst everything that had gone wrong, _tremendously seriously incomprehensibly wrong_ , you saw the silver lining remained intact. You kept reading, interested and involved, maybe a little touched by how the commanders had shown such infallible loyalty to their respective teams.

_"Reyes here. I'm not forwarding my agents this patronizing email about virus prevention. They know what the hell they're doing, unlike the people on your end, who can all shove it. Thanks though, really helpful!”_

_"Jack here. You sound stressed out.“_

_“Well, glad that's obvious. Suppose I’m severely deficient in vitamin D and that’s making me a little cranky— not the cybersecurity breach. I wonder if there's any correlation to you sending us out to the arctic and my stress levels?”_

The very last thing you read before pocketing the device was a civil thank you message to Captain Amari for sending the care package along with a request for caffeine pills and coffee beans in the next one.

 

* * *

 

It was hard to not wake up in a bad mood when you were up against Commander Reyes and his brand of disappointment, Astor and his, then you with your own after discovering McCree was on yet another mission and totally unreachable, save through comms. You went through your morning routine zapped of enthusiasm, moving for the sake of motion and wishing you could have stayed in bed with the blanket pulled to your chin. If there was one thing that brought you comfort, it was the idea of a clean slate which lasted approximately until you were seated at your desk and imagining the workload. You started laying the bricks all over, one by one, piecing Rome back together, a monumental and thankless task that went without interruption except for when Astor stumbled in, uncharacteristically late.

“Check your messages lately?" He asked the room, you more specifically. Lea looked up and over, eyeing him for a moment before deciding she wouldn't have been acknowledged either way.

"Not lately, why?" You replied, surprised that he had opened his mouth at all after the heavy silence the day prior.

"Overwatch tech support sent an email to Commander Reyes that he forwarded to Commander Morrison that was _then_ sent to us... I'll save you time, yeah? It's a detailed explanation, they want to make sure we know how antivirus software works."

“Wow,” you mouthed, unable to keep from snorting with the recollection of the conversation you had read via backdoor.  

“Remember... always type with a condom on your hands.”

“First of all, gross." You turned in your chair to face him, expression tainted by the remark. "Second of all, what?”

“ _Ek weet nie_ , I was haunted by the ram each time I closed my eyes. Couldn't sleep. At all. Might be missing a conversational filter or worse." Astor blinked, vapidly. "HQ should analyze my head, I'd love another condescending report.”

"You never slept before..." Your sentence dropped off. Yesterday created its own measurement. BH and AH: Before Hack and After Hack.

“For different reasons,” Astor responded, matter-of-fact. “But, _ag_ , everything happens for a reason. That's the quote, yeah? Everything happens for a reason, or, it must since people like to say that all the time. I kept thinking of that last night, that and the screens. It was around 3- _something_ in the morning when I understood the reason for the logic bomb. It was supposed to be a distraction but I think it's helped me figure everything out... Know what I'm saying?”

He gave you a careful wink, making sure Lea wasn't still engaged or proving interest in what he was saying. You took the hint and cleared your throat. “You're becoming talkative, what's the world coming to?"

“I don't know yet, but, soon," he concluded, flatly, waving you over. "Anyways, at least there’s still tea, yeah?”

You approached Astor’s desk who then proceeded to hand you his empty mug as he televised a face that so clearly read ‘act like its full’ as if it were written across his forehead. The only significant thing about the ceramic was that he had stashed a post-it note inside. You took the cup back to your desk, unsure if you should've pretended to drink from to maintain the charade but Lea appeared to be extremely distracted by the wind picking up outside and so you reached in to fish the paper out. He had doodled  _Nerium oleander_  being shit on by a skeletal ram next to some words:

_"Mess hall, 0000 hours. Talk then."_

You gave Astor a look of confusion and agreement but loyally vocalized nothing. He raised an imaginary glass to toast you, signifying his approval, then turned towards his desk as if nothing had occurred. As everyone busied themselves, you were alarmed to find when the middle of the day rolled around, the time that Jesse would usually come and relieve you, there was a different face waiting at the door. Smirking.

Genji's.


End file.
